


Insurgency

by sonicSymphony



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/F, F/M, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Humanstuck, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 268,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicSymphony/pseuds/sonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legacies aren’t something people down below have to deal with. Eridan Ampora’s involves security and Angels; Feferi Peixes must decide if she’s ever going to return to her mother’s horrid genetic modification company. As they both run from responsibility and stay away from all who knew them before, they meet the Vantases and Maryams—their crazy neighbors in the apartment upstairs—who may end up dragging them (plus the rest of the fucked up civilization they live in) into an uprising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ACT 1: I- 254 Days

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm finally putting this out into the world. It's rather terrifying for me.
> 
> I've been working on this for almost a year now, and it's taken quite a long time for me to polish the chapter to the point where I'm satisfied with it. One of the main reasons that this is going live is because of derseandprospitcollide on Tumblr; she really helped me slap this chapter into the shape, and was patient while I rambled and threw walls of text at her until I could form a coherent sentence. Many thanks to her.
> 
> There will be tags added as the story goes along, and there will be other ships too, but they're not big enough to mention. All of the alpha and beta trolls, as well as the beta kids, will make appearances. Also, don't get confused if this ever gets referred to as Eugenicstuck; it's what I've been using to refer to this for year, since the title was only finalized five minutes ago. Some slang terms are thrown around in here that I'm sure you've never seen before, so if you're particularly bothered by not knowing exactly what they mean from the beginning, there's a link down at the bottom to a glossary, though I'm sure you could end up figuring out what they mean through context clues. But yeah just in case.

The listing on the BHG’s board was ambiguous at best, and that’s how you should’ve known not to even give it a second glance. Vague descriptions usually meant that the job was going to end in a bust, so either: a) the contractor wouldn’t pay you when you killed the bastards, b) it’s a suicide mission, or c) the targets are politicians. Though you’re positive that this scenario wouldn’t fit into the final category, you’re not sure which of the other two it would be. Ahab’s Crosshairs is slung across your back, the tip of the weapon barely visible above your shock of dark hair, though you won’t need it tonight. The modified harpoon gun wouldn’t be the best idea for this hunt, your contractor told you, and gave you the finest gun you’d ever laid eyes on: a _Fawkes_ automatic plasma pistol, manufactured by the best arms maker in the business, charged with a bolt for each of your two hits. _If you’re as good of a shot as people say you are_ , your contractor had told you with a smirk that made his green eyes crinkle at the edges, _you won’t need any more than that_. 

You wanted to say that of fucking _course_ you’re a fantastic shot, but you couldn’t say that to a buck, so you’d done something that you’d only learned to do in the last two years or so: shut up.

In the present, you are somewhat regretting that decision as a green clad gentleman strolls around the corner. He’s a big person, tall and wide and carrying a fire extinguisher. Of course he’s one of your targets (no one but a Felt member could wear so much bloody _green_ ), but having him just strolling in front of you seems too easy.

Despite your misgivings, he’s hitting the floor dead within a second. The blast of the gun is near silent, and you stand in the hall, shoulders tense, as you watch for someone else to come walking by. Late enough in the game to be considered sloppy, you swipe your finger across the top right frame of your glasses, and the onscreen computer boots to life, indicating that there are no life signs in the immediate area; the closest clump of people is in the lobby a good fifty feet down the hallway. You let out a relieved breath and pad quietly over to the body.

You’d almost expected for him to bleed green, but underneath all of that neon velvet finery, he’s still just as human as you are. Squatting, you unsheathe your tiny dive knife and in one clean movement, slice off this thumb. You catch it before it hits the hardwood floor, and then slip it into a canister at your belt. If there was time, you’d clean up the blood and hide the body, but you’ve got to be out of this hotel in less than two minutes, so you carry on. 

Since the first hit was so easy, you’re nearly sure that your second target is going to be much harder to nab. You make your way down the maintenance hallway, using the reflectors in the sides of your glasses to make sure the door behind you stays firmly closed. It’s your exit, and having it obstructed by maintenance workers or errant hotel guests would be all sorts of horrible. You’d get past the setback if it _did_ get compromised because you’re fuckin brilliant, but you can already feel a migraine coming on and you’d rather not have to work your brain especially hard today. As you come to the end of the stream of supply closets and the murmur of the nearby lobby gets louder, a small explosion shakes the building. 

You tense instantly, crouching as flakes of plaster rain down from the ceiling. _What the_ hell _was that?_ Cursing internally, you flick an ingrained button on the side of your glasses, and the scene shifts to a rough outline through the wall. Smoke shrouds part of the lobby, but just on the edge of the commotion, you can spot some figures barreling towards the ballroom.

Oh god, what the ever loving _fuck_ is the Midnight Crew doing here? You didn’t sign up to get wrapped up in the middle of a gang war. All you wanted was a quick job to get you a few extra bucks to pick up ten pounds of shrimp down at the docks for Fef’s birthday. Instead you’re going to become a corpse.

They move out of your line of sight. Flicking your glasses back into heat mode, you clutch the gun tighter and brace yourself before dashing into the smoke.

You stumble upon quite a few dead bodies in the wreckage—though not nearly as many as you would have if it had been an actual military grade bomb instead of something they made in their garage—and none of them are the final Feltman that you’re supposed to be killing. It’s not like you were going to get lucky twice in a row.

Gritting your teeth, you slink towards the ballroom. Since that’s where the Crew went, you’re nearly positive that your target is going to be in there too, probably with some other Felt members. The rapid gunfire that blasts from the room confirms your suspicions and you brace your back against the open door and catch your breath; it’s hard to breathe with all of this dust and debris floating in the air, but you manage. Just as you’re about to switch settings again to try and see into the room, bullets cut into your shoulder. 

They shouldn’t have gotten through, as your shirt is lined with lightweight bulletproof foam that cost you most of your savings, but you guess that gangsters have gotten better guns. The turtleneck seems to have stopped the bullets from going in too deep, however, so you’ll probably be able to pick them out with a pair of forceps when you get home. And you know you _will_ get home, because instead of checking that you’re properly down for the count, the bastard who shot you continues to beeline for the ballroom.

…The bastard who is also your target. While you’d thought the first man you shot was a hulking figure, this guy’s even _bigger_ , though he’s more tall than wide. You can tell he’s the right guy by the number on his hat and the gun he carries, which is a legend among bounty hunters for being able to spit out more bullets than any other gun on the market. Even though almost your entire shoulder is on fire, if the stories you got told by veteran marksmen when you first joined up at the BHG had any truth to them, you got lucky. Again. 

He got your right shoulder, which was the sensible side to shoot for from his perspective—people usually aim for your right side, but since you’re left-handed, you can still function pretty fuckin well without your right arm. Swinging up your pistol before the man in green can blink, you blow his head off.

This, somehow, doesn’t attract the attention of the people in the ballroom, and their notice doesn’t turn towards you even when you come into their line of sight to cut off the final Feltman’s thumb and slip it seamlessly into the remaining canister. Now you’re purposely being sloppy, as for some reason your curiosity is getting in the way of your judgment since all you want to know right know is _why_ they aren’t paying attention to you. With a glance inside the room, you get your answer. Because there, being ceaselessly shot at from multiple angles without a single bullet touching him, is none other than Doc Scratch.

You run.

* * *

 

The word has already gotten out about the flare in gang activity by the time you get out of the building, so no one is there to see you running for your fucking life. Your only thoughts are that you have to get away from that building as fast as fucking possible, because that was Doc Scratch, and he has an omnichip in his fucking head, and if he’d seen you (even just the _tiniest_ glance) he would’ve known who you are.

And that could _never_ happen, not because of what you were doing, but because of what you used to be. Or still _are_ , most would argue. Some hair dye, personality modifications, and a fake accent wouldn’t change the fact that you’re a buck with the last name Ampora. One look at you, and your cover would be blown. Though a man like Scratch probably wouldn’t report you to the authorities (or worse _, your parents_ ) he’d keep tabs on you because a person like you would be a game to him, even if you don’t meet the female requirement. And boy, if his reputation is correct, he loves a good game. 

In order to clear your head, you roll your injured shoulder, feeling a bullet that was poking out further than the others fall out and ping onto the ground. The pain that spikes through you makes your stomach curl but it gets Scratch out of your head, and that’s what you needed; anyway, the adrenaline is just starting to wear off, so the pain isn’t as bad as it will be in a few minutes. The wound isn’t bleeding very badly, and your shirt that is _supposed to be fuckin bulletproof, what a ripoff,_ is absorbing any blood that falls. At least the shock absorption layer seemed to do its job, as your shoulder doesn’t feel dislocated or broken in any way. You know what? You’re glad you were wearing the turtleneck that didn’t do its entire job. If you’d just been in regular clothing and were lucky enough that your arm _didn’t_ get completely blown off, you’d probably have to go in for surgery and physical therapy and shit. Everything in that last sentence is an instant turnoff, so you mentally thank Kevlar for making a product that saved you from permanent injury.

It still hurts like hell, though. 

After fetching your coat from the top of a fence about five hundred feet behind the hotel, you head for the BHG to get your pay. Once you’re a few blocks away from the building, the city is alive again. You pass a club with the bass pumping so loud that the streetlights surrounding it are rattling, and the throbbing of your shoulder fixes itself so it aches in time with the beat. Even though the sidewalk you’re travelling on had been slated for repair and repaving a decade ago, it’s just as dilapidated and cracked as it’s always been; only people who have been walking up and down its length for years can navigate it without tripping. The sidewalks could summarize the entirety of the Furthest Ring: decrepit, abused, forgotten. But as rundown as they are, they always take you where you need to go, and tonight, that is the Bounty Hunters’ Guild Headquarters on the west side. 

The receptionist is smothering a cigarette in the ashtray when you walk in. She hardly glances up from her computer screen, even when you approach and start drumming your fingers on the table passive aggressively. When she deems it appropriate, she says, “Collector’s in office 21B today, sweetheart.”

You grunt your thanks and tread towards the adjourning office. The Bounty Hunters’ Guild doesn’t always have a full staff of collectors, and though they employ three total, there’s usually only one in at a time. Today, it’s one that you might go as far to say you _like_ : Rufioh Nitram.

He grins at you as you enter his office. His black eye and split lip haven’t gotten much better since you were in here a few days ago; they’re results of a flour riot down near the Furthest Ring’s Office of Price Administration building. It was a small insurrection, Rufioh had told you the day before, but hell it had got his blood going. “I thought you said you didn’t do ambiguous hits,” he says now as he props his feet up on his desk and slides a file across it towards you. You don’t look at it because you know exactly what it says, and instead of playing along, you just unhook the canisters from your belt and plop them onto his desk. He scoops them up and pops them into the microwave-looking device behind him. It confirms that your hits were the right people, and Rufioh fetches you the money you’ve been promised. “The contractor said you could keep the pistol, too,” he says, amusement in his eyes. “It takes balls to go after gang members.” 

You scowl and swipe up the money, stuffing it into your pocket. You thumb it quickly, feeling the texture and counting the bills to confirm that it was the $1,000 you’ve been promised before removing your hand from your pants. It seems like a lot, but with all this inflation, it’ll hardly buy you the shrimp and an old copy of _The Little Mermaid_ to watch on your rickety Blu-ray player. Fef had always wanted to see that movie, even though it was nearing two and a half centuries old. There had been darker remakes with real people and less singing, but your girl had always held a fascination for antiquated things.

“Did any more listings go up while I was gone?” you inquire, avoiding his quip from earlier. 

He shakes his head. “Besides those two you just did, not many have gone up this week. Trying to get more money for your girlfriend, or are you just really bloodlusty tonight?” 

Fef isn’t your girlfriend and Rufioh knows this; he just makes comments like that to get under your skin. Though he’s normally a pretty amiable guy and you _know_ he likes you, playful barbs are usual treatment from him. Maybe it’s because his subconscious keeps trying to tell him that he should be casteist towards you; he hates bucks with a white-hot passion of glowing irons in the fire.

You shrug before realizing that’s a _horrible_ idea. Your teeth clench and you emit a small squeak because _fuck_ you should’ve known not to move your shoulder. Rufioh comprehends the situation immediately, and his eyebrows shoot up, a saccharine smile gracing his face. “Fucked up your shoulder, huh? Just the other day you were boasting that you hadn’t been hurt on a job since you exited the novice stage.”

After flipping him the bird, you turn dramatically and stride to the door. Within moments you’re out of the stuffy office building and heading for the docks. You only have to show your Hunter’s license once on your way, because a police officer spotted the harpoon gun, and weapons bigger than a knife are very, _very_ illegal. Unless you have the proper permits, of course, but those are really hard to get; you’re fortunate that you had enough connections to get some paperwork foraged and bing bang boom, you got yourself a license.

Sunset has rendered the sea and sky spectacular shades of pink and purple and orange, and you allow yourself to appreciate the splendor of it for a minute or two, hands tucked firmly in your pockets as you gaze out over the water. You imagine that it must have once been much more beautiful, because all of this pollution has really fucked with the entire ecosystem, and no one knows that better than you and Fef. The ocean is completely saturated with trash and oil, remains of old barges skeletoned on the ocean floor (as they were abandoned when fossil fuels became a thing of the past), and schools of fish with strange mutations from all the poisonous materials that got dumped after the great Toxic Scare of 2057. Feferi makes a habit of “diving for treasure”, as she puts it, since they’ve got a scuba tank and a desperate need for money, and despite the fact that it’s dank and dirty Fef’s had an awed adoration for the ocean ever since she was conceived. You abhor what she has to do, but you know that her contributions really help you two survive, bringing in an extra $15,000 a month, give or take a bit depending on the season.

You wander the docks for a good twenty minutes before you find a captain selling shrimp, caught yesterday about fifty miles north and offshore enough that it’s past the gulf stream and toxins can’t mess with their taste and health as much. Since it’s yesterday’s catch, you’re offered a discount so you manage to get twelve pounds. You’re able to leave the docks with an air of smugness to you because Feferi’s going to be so _happy_ she’ll be bouncing with energy and chattering constantly, and though you find her constant need to babble when she’s excited kind of annoying at times, you love her to bits.

 _The Little Mermaid_ is harder to find than the shrimp, though you do discover it in a ratty old video store that stinks of mold with bars on the windows and an electric blue tat working the counter. You hand over a crisp bill and are out of the store before the structure can collapse or you experience another gang war. 

Waiting at the bus stop is always tense. Once you got your weapons permit, the sight of your harpoon gun usually kept any assholes at bay, but in the months before you had it you’d been mugged three times, and got the upper hand against five others. Now no one bothers you, and usually no one else at the stop gets bothered either. Since the workday is ending for most, the stop is crowded, and there’s standing room only when you set foot on the bus.

Night has fallen by the time you return to your apartment, and you hope Fef hasn’t been worrying about you, as she tends to do if you don’t make it back by dark. After heading up three flights of stairs, you’re at your floor and burrowing around in your pocket for your wallet. When you get your key, you stick your wallet in your mouth as you slide the card into the slot and the door unlocks with a soft click. Nudging the door with your foot, you step inside, putting your key away as you do so.

She’s humming over a pot of boiling water in the kitchen, about to pour some ramen in. The tune is familiar, being an old ballad from a movie with actors long dead, and though it’s slightly off key it’s endearing. She lights up like a firefly when she sees you, and her grin widens further when she sees the bag of shrimp in your hand. “Eridan, you didn’t have to get dinner!” she exclaims, rushing forward to take the seafood and kissing you on the cheek once she gets in range. Your stomach does a backflip. “We haven’t had good shrimp in such a long time, this is going to be _fantastic_! Thank you!”

You can’t help but smile a bit; she’s the only one that can coax anything but a smirk out of you. “Happy birthday. One more year until you’re an adult under the law.”

She rolls her eyes, which are a vivid sapphire without her contacts, and unties the knot around the top of the plastic bag before dumping half of its contents in. The rest you can save for tomorrow. As she puts the bag in the freezer, you dig in the cabinets for some vinegar, which you add to the mix; Fef’s grandmother used to do that when she boiled shrimp, and they always turned out great. Feferi slides up beside you to stir, and she lays her head on your shoulder. Luckily it’s the one that didn’t get shot up, so you put your head on top of hers and stand there until the shrimp is cooked.

As she drains the pot, you leave for the bathroom, saying you’ve gotta take a leak before dinner. Fef nods to let you know she heard, and you walk around the corner to the tiny restroom. It’s got a sink with a cracked mirror above it and a shower that only runs cold, but after an adjustment period it turned out to be enough for either of you. From under the cabinet below the sink, you rummage around and find a pair of tweezers and a cup, as well as a bit of gauze. If all goes well, you’ll be finished up in minutes and Fef won’t get suspicious.

Even though luck was on your side tonight thus far, it seems that it wasn’t going to continue that way. You go through hell to get off your shirt one handed, and the wound opens up again, starting a small trickle down your torso. You get a towel that’s already stained with old blood and oil to put on your lap so none of it gets on your pants and get to work, sitting on the toilet lid. After five minutes, you’ve bitten a hole in your lip and only three bullets are out, despite the fact that they’re all mostly sticking out of your skin. That’s how long it takes for Fef to come looking for you. 

“Eridan?” she asks hesitantly through the door. “It’s going to get cold.” 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” you say, trying to cover up the pain in your voice with a layer of excitement for the oncoming seafood. You think you do a good job of it, but Feferi comes in anyway. When she sees you her eyes go wide, and she sighs before crouching in front of you and taking the forceps before you can protest. She’s fixed you up countless times before, and she’s got a much better angle and an extra hand, so she gets to plucking out bullets smaller than her pinky nail faster than you had been. “Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? Usually all you do is carp and moan.”

It’s not said with venom, but it’s condescending, and that’s pretty much the same thing coming from her. “It’s your birthday,” you say awkwardly, wincing as she rips out one that was in deeper than the rest. She murmurs an apology. “You hate doin’ this, so I didn’t want you to have to.”

“The only thing I hate about this is that you got hurt in the first place,” she says as she plucks another one out and flicks it with ease into the glass cup. It makes a pinging sound as it hits. “You need to be more careful.” 

You don’t say anything else, and neither does she. She only tells you to be more careful every fuckin day of your life.

It only takes her a few minutes to get all of the bullets out of your shoulder—you count fourteen total, including the one that fell out by the hotel—and she bandages it up like a pro, having to wrap the material all the way around your chest in order to get it to stay. She frets about making a sling, but you disregard that notion immediately, saying that you don’t need a fuckin sling because it would ruin your aesthetics. Fef obviously disagrees, but before she can say anything else you remind her about dinner and head out to the kitchen (after painstakingly pulling your shirt back on, of course). 

After you fetch a bowl from a cabinet over the stove for the shells, you go about setting the table while Feferi drains the large pot. The shrimp are peel ‘n eat, which are usually eaten cold but you and Fef both have a preference for hot seafood, and you bought them with the heads already cut off. Anyway, it’s easier to do it this way than peel them all before hand, which takes “FOR--EV-ER,” as Fef would say.

The atmosphere brightens considerably when you start digging in. You’d put on the radio before you sat down, and a peppy pop song plays faintly, painting the bit of silence that crops up from time to time. Fef seems pleased with your purchase, and that in itself is enough to make you preen, but _goddamn_ you missed seafood. She isn’t the only one getting a special treat tonight.

“You know, I was doing some thinking about schoolfeeds today,” Fef says as she squeezes the last bit of meat from the tail of one of the little bastards. “Today would’ve been the day I could finally have access to the Heresies. I’ve always wanted to browse that collection.”

Huh, she’s right. You haven’t thought about continuing your education in ages, since you and Fef finished your basic schooling right before you ran off and now have no way of going higher on the ladder. Coming from the families you did, the pair of you had access to every book and material in the system, except for the Heresies. As their title suggested, the cache of information yielded a vast collection of ideas and histories banned by your leaders until the young are “capable of reasonable thought” (Fef always told you that the phrase was synonymous for “ _brainwashed_ ”; you never believed her until recently), and it was only available to people born into a level nine clearance and above. “It’s not really that important now,” you say. “Different doesn’t mean better.”

“But just think of what could be in there, Eridan,” she emphasizes, and she’s got that shine in her eye that she gets when she talks about reforming the system. It makes her fiery and alive and even if you don’t entirely agree with her ideas, you love her for her passion. “I’m not hopeful enough to say that there’s a step-by-step guide to recreating a corrupt government, but maybe there are success stories or biographies of people who tried or, hell, maybe there are fragments of history that fill in the missing pieces of what we were taught, and maybe it’s _beautiful_.”

You put down the shrimp you were peeling so you can make your usual grand hand gestures without creating the possibility of a seafood projectile. “Fef, I know you’ve always been an optimist, but me, I’m a realist (“You’re a _cynic_ , Eridan, there’s a difference,” she cuts in). I highly doubt that there’s something in those files that would prove useful to you in the long run. It’s probably just a lot of stuffy tomes about, oh I don’t know, _communism_ or something.”

“The world wasn’t always like this,” she says firmly. “I won’t believe it. Why would the bucks spout so much _bullshit_ about freedom and equality if they were something that was never present in our society? I just want to bring it back.”

Huffing, you break her gaze and look down at the huge bowl between you. “…Are you trying to say that you want to go home? So you can get access to files that may or may not help you?”

“God, Eridan, _no_ ,” Fef accentuates, seeming almost revolted that you’d suggest such a thing. “No way, not after all this. I just…” She sighs, propping her chin up on her elbow. “I’m curious. About what all those people had to say.”

Silence stretches between you two, only broken by the radio announcer making an obscene joke in the background. You finish peeling the shrimp you’d put down a minute ago, but can’t bring yourself to eat it just yet. “Look, Fef, it’s not that I don’t get what you’re saying,” you start, “and if I had access to the schoolfeeds, I’d want to take a look at the Heresies too. But we gave that up. Best not to dwell on it; chances are there aren’t going to be any big revolutions anytime soon, and like you said, we’re not heading back upstream in the near future.”

“Let’s just drop it,” she interrupts, mouth twitching at the corner. “I don’t want to argue anymore tonight.” 

Frankly, you aren’t in the mood for it either—you’re not even the least bit fired up—so you nod and start eating again. Conversation moves on to lighter topics, and by the end you’re both laughing your asses off because Fef’s balancing a shrimp on her upper lip to make a moustache and you’ve pinned one by the tail to your ear. It’s held in place by your earring, and it’s super heavy and may just tear your ear in half and give you some diseases. Anyone who walked in would think that you two are on some kind of drug, but hell, at least you’re amusing each other.

* * *

 

After dinner, you lead her into the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by no walls; the only difference is that the linoleum switches to abrasive carpeting. You turn on the TV and pop in the movie as she sits, watching you with interest. Once everything is set up, you hit play, and the title screen appears.

“You got it!” she says excitedly, twining her fingers together and bouncing a little bit.

“I did,” you affirm. “Happy birthday,” you say again, and when you sit down, she throws her arms around you, wary of your shoulder but still determined to crush you in her embrace. She’s strong, maybe even stronger than you. “Love you,” she says into your throat. 

You kiss her hair. It’s not completely the way you’d like her to love you, but you loved her as a friend first and you still do despite the layer of romantic adoration that coats it now, and since her loving you even a little bit means she’s less likely to abandon you you’re willing to take it. You stopped whining about the friendzone a very long time ago because you did a lot of growing up when you left the Burbs (...perhaps “a long time” is a bit of a stretch; you’d abandoned that attitude no more than a year ago, and you only admit this now because you don’t want to get a reputation as an unreliable narrator). Sliding your good arm around her, she snuggles into your side and you curl drop your head onto hers and press play. 

When it’s over, she disentangles herself from you and stretches, arms thrust towards the ceiling and back arching. You take a moment to admire the curve of her spine under her tight camisole and the wiry muscles in her arms, averting your eyes as she starts turning her head towards you. “Did you like the movie?” she asks.

You shrug, and then cringe awkwardly when your shoulder reminds you that it recently had fourteen bullets in it. “It was alright,” you say, which is probably better than she was expecting, since you’re more of a fan of movies with explosions and history and heroic figures (this doesn’t keep you from liking _some_ classic Disney movies, however). “You enjoy it?”

By the way she isn’t grinning like a mirthful messiah, you can tell that it didn’t quite meet her expectations, and you hate to have disappointed her. That seems to be all you can do. “I did,” she says, sounding earnest, though you can hear the _but_ before she says it, “but I wish I could’ve seen it when I was a kid. I really would’ve loved it then. But _nooooo_ , it was just all of those shitty educational films and propaganda.” She perks up a bit. “But Flounder was ADORABLE. I would just _love_ to have him as my best friend!”

A corner of your mouth quirks up, and with a self-deprecating air you say, “What, I’m not good enough for you?” and she quickly responds, “Of course you are,” and that’s the end of that.

Though you're starting to feel tired, Fef still seems pretty awake so you stay out in the living room. You don't have cable, but the antenna built into the TV is able to pick up a couple of channels, and you watch a news program and half of an old sitcom before you're out. 

When you come to, you are still on the couch but laid out horizontally, with your cheek pressed into the armrest and your feet in Fef's lap. Squinting in the darkness, you manage to make out your glasses abandoned on the floor. Reaching down, you grab them and put them on, blinking a few times to try and wake up a bit.

The clock on the oven across the room says it's a bit past three. Glancing over at Feferi, you see that she's still sound asleep, mouth partially open and passed out over the other side of the couch. You smile—just a little, for no one but yourself—and stretch. Then, you get carefully off the couch and move towards her, quiet as can be. You slip your arms around her back and under her knees, lifting her as carefully as you can. Your wound protests, reminding you of its presence, but you mentally tell it to fuck off; you can carry her the twenty steps to the bed without keeling over. Her head falls onto your shoulder (your good one, thank god), but she doesn't wake. 

Your feet make very little noise on the carpet, so it's quiet enough that the girl in your arms remains undisturbed. However, when you try to get into the bedroom, you accidentally hit her foot on the doorframe, and she stirs. "Eridan?" she slurs, butchering your name to sound more like _Erdin_. It’s so fucking cute you might die.

"Go back to sleep, Fef," you say as you walk towards the bed. She makes a little humming sound and snuggles into your shoulder. Your chest feels lighter than it has in a while, because you love her and when she's asleep, you don't have to deal with her looking at you differently than you look at her.

With a bit of fumbling, you manage to get her under the covers. You head to the dresser so you can finally get out of your tight pants and shot up shirt, grabbing a T-shirt and cozy sweats to change into. Even though Fef is most likely already asleep again, you make sure to have your back to her as you change (at first, you’re not sure if you’ll be able to get your shirt off, but you manage, coming out of the situation with your teeth sore from clenching them and teary-eyed) and head over to the bed. The apartment came furnished and included a double bed, and you two really didn't mind sharing so you decided not to try to pawn it off to get money for two smaller ones. Now, neither of you even think about it; it's just part of a routine. Despite the lack of general misgivings, you're careful not to touch her under the covers.

You settle in yourself, sliding into place on the left side. It's closest to the window, and you like that because you can stare out of it when you can't sleep (which is, sadly, often). Tonight, though, despite your aching shoulder, you have little trouble falling back into slumber.

Before it’s actually time to get up, you wake up twice, once for the bathroom and again because an ambulance went by the apartment, sirens blaring. This final time, Fef is poking your cheek. “Get up, sleepy head, we need to make pancakes!”

You groan, rolling onto your stomach and burying your face in the pillow. Anyone who watched you two live would be doing a case study on contrasts; to add to your list of differences, she’s a morning person while you’d sleep till noon, though she never lets you. She likes anchovies on her pizza and you like pineapple. She’s bubbly and you’re a buzzkill. At least she doesn’t wake you up at whatever ungodly hour she first rises. “I hate Sundays,” you groan. It’s muffled, but she still can make out what you’re saying.

“Oh, they’re your _favorite_ ,” she laughs, grasping your wrist and tugging until she remembers you’re injured and decides that dragging you onto the floor wouldn’t promote healing. “Now come on, the Maryams and Vantases are expecting pancakes.”

She flounces out of the room, off to mix up the batter. Feferi always does this part when it’s your turn to make the pancakes, and you do the cooking part. It took you weeks to figure out how not to burn them or make them run together, but now you can fit four in the pan and do everything from pouring to flipping without trouble. Struggling, you pull yourself into a sitting position, wiping the sleep out of your eyes and stretching before heading off to the shower. 

The bandaging is waterproof and red isn’t showing under the linen, so you figure that your shoulder is well enough to leave until later. Scrubbing at your hair and shaving the bit of stubble that cropped up overnight is awkward with only one hand, but you’re out of the bathroom only a minute or two behind schedule. “Do you need me to redo your shoulder?” Fef calls from the kitchen as you cross the hall from the bathroom back to your bedroom. You tell her that you’re good for now and go to get dressed.

Today, you decide to keep your outfit relatively simple: black slacks and shoes, a white dress shirt, and a dark purple sweater vest are all you’re in the mood for today. Breakfast at the apartment directly above yours is a weekly, casual affair, and if Karkat Vantas can lumber out onto the couch in his fucking pajamas, you figure you don’t have to be in full formal wear.

When you emerge, Fef is already buttering the pan, humming jauntily along with the radio. You swoop in beside her, taking the batter off the counter and stirring a bit more before putting four dollops into the pan. It sizzles as it hits, and your stomach grumbles in response. The tips of your ears turn red as Fef giggles.

She goes to get dressed as you monitor and flip pancake after pancake, and you take the opportunity to change the radio station to something more cultured. The classical station is the least popular in the city (even though there was a revival fifty or so years back), but it’s your favorite because it doesn’t need words to convey emotions. Fef says you only like it because listening to it makes you feel superior to other people, which it totally _not_ true.

Twenty-four pancakes later, you’re picking up a large tin tray filled with them and making your way towards the front door. Fef offers to carry them, but you do the chivalrous thing and say that you’ve got it. She rolls her eyes and mutters something about your shoulder taking twice as long as it should to heal before she grabs a bag of fruit off the counter, picking up the house key, and opening the door for you.

The door locks automatically behind you, but Feferi checks to make sure it’s secure; there’s nothing wrong with being careful. Since the elevator in this building has been out of commission for forty years or so, you take the stairs up. It’s not a long climb by any means, and soon Fef’s knocking eagerly your neighbors’ rickety door. You’re standing slightly behind her, trying to rearrange the tray without dropping it, when the door opens.

Karkat is revealed, looking tired and annoyed—his default expression. “Hey,” he greets monotonously, stepping aside to let you two in and then slamming the door behind you. “You know where to put them,” he says to you, and you head off to the kitchen as Kanaya pats the spot next to her on the couch. Feferi puts her bag on top of your tin and plops down, wasting no time in engaging the taller girl in conversation.

Kankri welcomes you cordially and Porrim nods to an open spot of counter. “Need any help cookin’?” you ask, feeling generous. It’s a rare thing for you, especially this early in the morning. Your eyes flit towards the couch to see if Fef noticed your act of charity, but she’s engrossed in conversation with Kanaya.

“Thanks, Eridan, but we’ve got it,” Porrim says, cutting up a banana that falls into a large blender. Sunday smoothies are the best part about these breakfasts, in your opinion, even if none of the fruit is fresh and they just use juice instead of ice cream and a bunch of delicious artificial stuff that you grew up with. You’re tempted to grab a blueberry out of the mix, but last time you tried Porrim almost cut your fingers off, so you refrain. 

Feferi and Kanaya don’t even notice when you enter the room (unlike your apartment, their kitchen is semi separated from the living room by a wall and a half), but Karkat gives you a nod from where he’s sitting on the armrest and glowering. Instead of interrupting the conversation, you go and sit by him.

“Dude, where the fuck _were_ you last night?” Karkat groans. “I needed a fifth person for _Dota_. We had to use Tavros, and he fucking _sucks_.”

“Come on, you know Tav’s better at the _Minecraft_ stuff,” you say, trying to give the kid a break. Though you never thought you’d be sticking up for a cripple, you like his brother, so you try your best to stay on good terms with the younger Nitram to make sure Rufioh never tricks you out of a deal. “And Sol was on; he’s a decent enough mage, even if he’s a fuckin asshole in real life. Though if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it and then shoot you.”

Karkat snorts, letting his head tip back and hit the wall with a dull thud. “He was on _the other fucking team_ , along with every other decent player but me! Well, we had Kanaya, and Nepeta’s _okay_ , but two and a half people can’t carry a team when they’re fighting a whole bunch of fucking OP _assholes_!” 

“Language, Karkat,” Kankri chides, walking into the room while untying his bright red apron. He really didn’t need it for anything; the guy takes everything too seriously, and you’d bet a large sum of money that he puts it on every time he enters the kitchen, even if he was just getting a glass of water. “It’s ready, you may now come to the bar.” 

Feferi jumps up from her spot on the other side of the couch and says, “Great, I’m starving!” before trotting over to a stool. The half wall you made note of earlier is a few feet high, and has a countertop that lets it act like a table. The wall itself has scuffmarks all over it from people’s feet, even if you all take off your shoes. Kanaya repaints it at least once every month or two, but within days it’s already messed up again.

You take a seat to Fef’s right, because then there’s a better chance of getting to touch her since your ongoing lefty-righty war causes you to bump elbows more than once during every meal. Karkat plops down on your other side, and the rest of the group settles on the opposite side of Feferi. It’s incredibly cramped, as it is every other Sunday of the year, but you’ve managed before and you figure that you’ll _continue_ managing until they kick you out.

Everything tastes wonderful, from the delectable smoothies to you and Fef’s pancakes. You’d think that having the same Sunday breakfasts with very little rotation on who cooks what would end with everyone getting sick of the food, but it’s honestly the best meal of the week, since all of you pick out the nicest looking fruit and cleanest cups of flour and sugar from your rations. Sometimes you make your own butter, if it’s a heavy cream week, and once there was a shipment of cocoa powder that Fef managed to get into so you had chocolate stuff for the first time since leaving the Burbs.

By the time everyone gets to the clever conversation part of the morning, your plate is clear of every crumb and you’re trying to get the last bits of strawberry flavored ice out of the bottom of your smoothie. Kankri is nattering away about something that you’ve been ignoring up until this point. “—cutting down on rations for people level four and below, which is another example of the blatant classism displayed by our oh-so-gracious buck rulers.”

“Well, there must’ve been a reason for it,” Feferi breaks in, trying to be sensible. “I admit, it _is_ incredibly unfair that only a segment of the population has to suffer the consequences of such a cut, but something must’ve happened to prompt it.”

No one responds to that. Kankri shifts his shoulders and sips on some shitty tea while Porrim slips out of her stool to gather plates. As she takes yours, you remember what Rufioh told you a few days ago. “Wait, was it wheat products that were affected?”

Karkat sighs and throws up his hands. “Oh, so just because you’re sitting high up in the fifth level you think you can _not_ listen to the bulk of the conversation. Yes, bitchweasel, the rations that were affected were the flour related ones. Here, have a gold fucking star.”

You make a face at him, wondering what he’d think if he found out you weren’t a level five like your fake ID said, but an _eleven_. Out of _twelve possible levels_. “What I was _going_ to say was that maybe what affected it was a riot. A pal of mine was part of a group that started throwin’ shit at the borough’s agricultural building because of the shortage of wheat-related rations. Even though it got shut down pretty quick and the media got censored by the police or some shit, maybe the authorities were pissed and cut the supply for the group of people they thought would be involved.”

Feferi looks incredibly interested, but the Vantases look like you slapped them. “Eridan, who did you hear that from?” Kankri questions.

“Um,” you say, blinking. “A guy down at the BHG. You probably don’t know him.”

Kankri sighs, reaching up to his forehead to rub his temples. “It wouldn’t happen to be Rufioh Nitram, would it?” 

You suck at lying like this, though you’ve gotten better at it since having to hide your identity and hair color and everything about you. Part of you wonders how the hell a guy like Kankri knows a guy like Rufioh. “…Maybe?” 

The older Vantas shoots up from his seat, startling Kanaya from a book she pulled out from god knows where and heading off towards one of the bedrooms. “Where are you going?” Porrim calls from the sink. Her posture is completely casual, but something in her voice tells you that she’s a bit uneasy too.

“I’m going to call Meulin,” he responds, coming out of the room with a shitty prepaid cellphone in his hand. He’s about to walk out the door when something seems to occur to him, and he about-faces and strides over to you and Fef. “Tonight,” he starts, “there’s a meeting of sorts down at _Midnight Runners_ at nine. Karkat, tell them what goes on,” he turns to his brother. You’re surprised that Kar doesn’t automatically reply with an enthusiastic, _‘Fuck no!’_ but just grumbles in compliance. “I’ll be back in a little while.” 

With that, he’s out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. The first sound over the running water of washing dishes is Kanaya turning a page in her book.

Feferi leans around you to get a good look at Karkat. “What does he mean?” she asks excitedly, a shine in her eye akin to the one that was present when she was talking about the Heresies the night before. “What kind of meeting?”

“It’s—” he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. You don’t notice now, but Fef’ll tell you later that Porrim was throwing you a wary look from the sink. You didn’t see because she wasn’t in your line of sight, but Fef took note of it. “Kankri has this weird equality club thing. I think it’s just an excuse for him to preach about his ideas and shit to a whole bunch of idiots who just stare at him and nod, but—” 

“Karkat,” Porrim cuts him off. “Your brother is a very gifted speaker, and he believes in what he’s doing. People wouldn’t listen to him if there weren’t any sense in what he’s saying, and you have to admit that you bitch about being oppressed all the time.”

“At least I’ve never used the word ‘ _triggered’_!” He starts gagging.

The water shuts off, and Porrim snaps the dishtowel at Karkat before drying her hands. Kanaya closes her book, setting it on the counter and folding her hands over it, adding, “No matter what Karkat says about it, tonight is a serious affair. Though the atmosphere is quite comfortable, a lot of things that are… _discussed_ aren’t very legal.”

Technically, censorship of any medium is banned, but everyone below knows that free speech is a load of bullshit. You meet Fef’s gaze, and she’s looking at you like she wants to explode from sheer excitement. _‘Treason, Eridan, actual TREASON!’_ you can imagine her bursting later. This is the sort of thing she’s always been interested in, and she’d kill to be included in anything that had the word ‘equality’ in it. “We’re going!” she exclaims, clasping her hands together under her chin. “We’ll _definitely_ be there, right Eridan?”

Though it _could_ sound like she’s asking your permission, you know it’s not like that at all; if anything, she’s telling you that she’s going no matter what and the only thing you have a say in is whether or not you’ll be carting your ass down to the shoddy bar with her. “Yeah, Fef, I’ll go.” _Midnight Runners_ is technically Crew territory, and though you’ve seen enough of them for a while, it’s unlikely that you’ll run into them twice within two days. Anyway, if any gang violence _did_ break out, you’d want to be there to protect Fef. She doesn’t have a weapons permit like you do.

“Fucking great,” Karkat groans, trying to be sardonic though in actuality he doesn’t sound very disappointed. “Now I’ll have at least one more person to add to my corner of sanity.”

Porrim scribbles out some directions on a napkin and hands them over the bar to Feferi, who thanks her and carefully put it in her pocket. This time, you _do_ see the look she throws at you—it’s like she’s trying to see through your shirt or something. You quirk an eyebrow at her in confusion, and she mirrors your action with one of her pierced ones as she tries to intimidate you. She used to be able to do that all the time: with tons of piercings, green-streaked hair, and tentacle-like tattoos covering most of her body, there’s not a lot of people Porrim Maryam _couldn’t_ intimidate. You’re only safe now because she likes you.

The brief standoff is broken when she looks down at the dripping plates. “Don’t be late,” she says, going back to putting away the dishes.

You guys hang out there for the next hour or two, and Kankri gets back somewhere in the middle, though he just trudges through the living room and back to his bedroom that he shares with his brother. Karkat breaks out an old gaming system, and you, Fef, Kan, and Kar play an old shooter zombie game until Porrim kicks you off the TV to watch some fashion program that comes on at one.

When you and Fef are heading down the stairs to go back to your apartment, she’s nearly vibrating with anticipation. “I was right!” she exclaims, skipping ahead of you.

“Don’t skip on the stairs,” you tell her, and she rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “Right about what?”

“There _are_ people who actively want change!” she says, getting off the staircase at your floor. “People down here aren’t just passive, downtrodden masses that are content to be herded around like mindless drones. They’re ready to _do_ something about their oppression! Isn’t it amazing?” 

“I guess,” you grumble, watching Fef dig the house key out of her pocket. Slipping it into the lock, she waits until the small bulb above the door lights up green before retracting it, and you hold the door open for Fef to go inside. “Don’t get your hopes too high, though, because all it sounds like is a bunch of friends getting together at a bar to rail against the government. People in the Burbs did that all the time.”

She plops down on the couch, propping her feet up on the table as she switches on the television. “But all they had to complain about were really tiny tax increases,” she argues. “This actually _means_ something! You’ll see.”

For her sake, you hope it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of terms/slang used can be found here: http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/56700096486/eugenicstuck-glossary


	2. II- 253 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of stuff I deleted/rewrote for this chapter, but I think this is definitely the best version (lesson learned: sudden creative inspiration doesn't always take you down the right road). Lots of thanks to my lovely beta derseandprospitcollide for getting me onto the right path!
> 
> ...And now for a change in perspective.
> 
> [Narrator Unlocked: 2/2]

“Come on, Eridan, we’re going to be late!” you call, tapping your foot impatiently on the carpet outside the bathroom door. He takes _forever_ to get ready, and even though you’ve lived with him for about two years, you still get sick of how long it takes him to primp, especially when you’re in a hurry like you are now. Despite the fact that neither of you did anything except lounge on the couch and watch shitty daytime TV for hours beforehand, it seems that you’re _still_ going to be late. “I’m sure your hair looks fine.”

Something inside falls to the floor—probably a bottle of hair gel from the sound of it—and Eridan curses. “I’ll be right out, I had to use my acne rinse. Just give me five more minutes,” he pleads.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. You have never met a vainer person in your entire life, even when you were back in the Burbs with all of that narcissism. He rarely gets a pimple because the acne cream is his religion, yet he figures that he’s going to get a cloud of acne _instantly_. “No; this thing starts in ten minutes and we have to walk, so we need to leave _now_.”

“You’re so controlling.”

“And you’re incredibly irresponsible!”

“Ugh.” He opens the door, slouching out into the hallway. His belt is undone and he hasn’t put a regular shirt on over his tank top, so you can see bits of the dressing from his shoulder wound. It’s looking a bit funky since he kept it on in the shower _again_ (you’d be _so pissed_ at all the showers he takes if you had to pay the utilities yourself) but it’s dry so you decide that for the sake of time, you’ll wait to change the bandages later. “I hope you’re happy. My hair looks flatter than Ter’s chest.”

His hair looks exactly the same as it always does. You wonder what else he could’ve possibly been doing to it before shaking your head and leading him into the bedroom. His top and jacket are stretched out on the bed. The former’s a plain, deep blue button up, while his jacket is the nicest thing in his closet: a high collared, royal purple trench coat that hangs to his ankles, gold buttons and a black sash keeping it together. It’s pockets are _huge_ , and you’re 99% sure he’s got his newly acquired pistol in a hidden inside compartment. 

You help him get the dress shirt over his bad shoulder, and then get the top buttons while he does the bottom since you’re getting really short on time. The trench coat settles nicely over his frame, and while he buttons and ties it you grab a pair of dark brown boots from the closet. He pulls them on, and before you can leave he stops to admire himself in the mirror one last time.

“Oh my god, Eridan, you look _fine_!” you exclaim, grabbing his hand and tugging him forcefully towards the door. He gasps loudly as you pull him away from the mirror, and you’re about to roll your eyes at his theatrics when you realize _fuck_ , you grabbed his bad arm.

You drop his hand like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you apologize turning around to look at him. His jaw is tight and there’s something shining in his eyes and you feel horrible because it wasn’t even a playful tug or anything like that; you fucking _yanked_ him. “Are you all right? Did I open it up?”

Eridan’s holding himself stiffly, his bad shoulder slumped and out of sync with the rest of him, and you know he’s trying to shake it off like the badass he _thinks_ he is but you know him better. He swallows and says quietly, “No, I think it’s fine. Just hurt a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stomach curling. Sure, he pisses you off and sometimes you want to hit him with a rolled up newspaper, but Christ you’d never want to actually _hurt_ him. You twine your fingers together and wonder if you should go in for a hug. Those seem to make him feel better. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He doesn’t quite smile but his gaze softens as he says, “I know you didn’t. You just forgot, and you can repay me by boiling some more shrimp for when we get home. Bar food is complete shit.”

Three flights of stairs later, you’re hitting the pavement. The first thing you see when you exit your shoddy apartment building is, as always, a gigantic billboard, lit up to the extent that everyone with a window near it has to have blackout curtains if they want to be able to sleep. _“Want your children to have the best future possible?”_ the sign asks in tall, bold letters _. “Call (321)GEN-ETIC to connect with professionals in your area!”_ In the background is a fancy classroom, full of diversity and excited, gorgeous children that could’ve been in the private academy you and Eridan went to for the first ten years of your life. The setting is spot-on but, the children aren’t: in true buck schools, about 90% of the students were light in every aspect, and though the IQ cut of for Atlantis boasted _‘Nothing lower than 130,_ ’ it was hard to find any sort of intelligence there. That said, the billboard makes you feel sick every time you look at it.

As you walk quickly down the street, your fuchsia flats barely make any noise on the cracked pavement and your long, dark skirt flows around your ankles. In contrast, Eridan’s cluncky boots make dramatic clops as he strides down the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He’s acting so melodramatic that he’s _got_ to have something on his mind besides you nearly ripping his arm off, and if you don’t ask him, no one will. “Okay, grumpy gills, what’s up?”

He winces, snapping out of his daze and looking over at you behind his thick lenses. Eridan has gorgeous green eyes that have been gazing at you since you were five and you met when your parents brought you to the same demonstration gala, but their old shine has been dimmed and fogged; when you two first ran away, he was washing his face and apparently the person who cleaned the sink left tons of lye in the pipes, and getting it in his eyes had fucked up his vision. Before he hadn’t needed glasses and never squinted, but now thick black frames are always present on the bridge of his nose. If you’d gone back home when it happened they probably would’ve been able to save his eyesight, but he wanted to stay. Though this desire was _probably_ because he wanted to win the bet and his pride was through the roof, you still feel guilty because you were the one that made him leave home in the first place.

“Um,” he says eloquently, “nothing.” He kicks a can out of his way violently.

“Eridan, we’re going to have _fun_ tonight, so stop being a drama queen and tell me what’s on your mind!”

Sighing sharply, he hunches his shoulders and mutters, “It’s a fuckin' equality thing. What if they find out we’re bucks?”

You swallow, wringing your hands in front of you. Unlike most of the things Eridan worries about, this is a legitimate concern, and truthfully it should’ve been bothering you too. Instead of letting him pull you down into a pit of apprehension, you twine your arm with his and press your shoulders together. The chill of the night is starting to set in, you notice, and you curl in closer after making sure you were on his good side. “They’re not going to find out. And if they do, it should be fine because all anyone wants is _equality_. We want it too! Why would they persecute us for that?”

Your optimism never catches on to him, and now is no exception. “It’s Marxism, Fef. The oppressed masses get tired of being oppressed masses, and rebel. They tear down the ruling class and situate themselves in charge, and eradicate anyone who opposes them. I’ll give you three guesses to figure out whom the ‘ruling class’ includes.”

Shaking your head, you tsk and say, “You’re forgetting the classless society that results! That means equality for _everyone_. Don’t use an analogy if you don’t know where it goes.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “You know it’s never really worked like that. Everyone just ends up worse off than they were originally and no one is happy except for the dictator.” He tuts. “Nice on paper, not so nice in practice.”

After all this communism talk, you kind of forgot what was bothering him in the first place. At least Eridan seems less tense, so you grin in the anticipation of the night and pull him along faster. He stumbles a bit, the toe of his boot catching on a crack on the sidewalk, and you giggle as he flails a bit, trying to catch his balance. You don’t let him fall.

The directions are barely legible, so the only reason you manage to find the bar is because Eridan has passed it once or twice. Even though streetlights line the road, more of them are broken than functional, and the complicated nature of the route helps contribute to your lateness. You arrive at the bar ten minutes after nine, but it seems like the event hasn’t gotten going yet. The lounge singer is sensually crooning away, voice barely floating on top of the chatter but not disturbing it in the slightest. “ _It's a cold, cold world, and she's on her own. This world is hers and hers alone. She's powerful, and she knows it.”_ You make eye contact with the singer, and she winks at you. There’s something a bit unnerving about it, but you grin back anyway. It takes a lot to bother you.

People are milling around, chatting like the best of buds with drinks in hand, and though most people seem casual there’s a peculiar sort of _electricity_ to the atmosphere that makes you want to quiver with anticipation. So far, you haven’t recognized anyone, but you’re always open to meeting new people. Eridan, however, seems to know a girl that’s making her way around the tables. She’s small and thin, with round, dark eyes, thin lips, baby fat still on her cheeks, and an agile sort of grace fills her movements as she strides towards you. “Eridan!” she almost purrs once she’s in range. “I haven’t seen you since Jetty Park! What’re you doing here?”

He scoffs a bit, untangling himself from you to pat her head. “I’m here to discuss politics, Nep. Not that you’d understand.”

She swats at his hand and bares her teeth at him, snarling, “I’ve been coming here every Sunday night for _months,_ so don’t patronize me, Actium,” but she perks up again when she notices you.

With a smile, you extend a hand. “Hello, I’m Feferi Caesar. I’ve known Eridan since we were kids. And you are?”

The girl takes your hand, shaking with a surprising amount of strength for someone so little. Her hands have calluses that are familiar, since Eridan has similar ones, but her hand is dwarfed in yours, even though you have reasonably small hands yourself. “Nepeta Leijon,” she introduces herself. “I hunt with Eridan.” This surprises you, because she doesn’t look older than eleven and the only way she could work with Eridan is if she killed people for a living. “I’m surprised that he’s managed to keep someone around for so long. I can barely get a kill without wanting to sink my claws into him.”

Eridan makes a disgruntled face, while you just laugh and say, “You have to get used to him.” Her abrupt, almost hyperactive nature throws you for a bit of a curve, but even so you can already tell that you and this girl would get along. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eridan sulking, so you pat his shoulder.

Nepeta looks off to the side and seems to see something. You follow her gaze to find a hulking bear of a man, sitting at a table in the corner. He looks like he could tear this little girl in half with just his gaze, but she seems to be perfectly okay with him staring at them. “I’ve got to get back to my table,” she proclaims before padding off.

“Tell Eq I said hey,” Eridan calls after her halfheartedly. Sighing, he shoves his hands back in his pockets.

“She was nice,” you say, smiling up at him. He gives a little shrug in response. Flicking your eyes back over to the table, you notice that Nepeta has taken a seat across from the man and is giggling about something while he sips on his milky white drink. You’re a little bit worried about her, but you figure that if she works for the BHG, she should be able to take care of herself. “Let’s see if we can find Karkat and Kanaya.”

The further back into the establishment you go, the louder it gets. The damp wooden walls seem to absorb some of the noise, but the drab atmosphere does nothing to dishearten the people in it. Most of what these people are discussing is _high treason_ , the highblood within you screams, and they should be put on trial and given the needle, even if you _agree_ with them. It’s hard to get rid of buck brainwashing, but you won’t let it be impossible. “‘Which one is the treason table?’” you quote, bringing yourself back to an essay you both read on the schoolfeed.

“All of the tables,” Eridan responds solemnly. “All of them.”

When you finally find your friends at the very back of the building, they’re sitting with about ten other people that you’ve never met. Since Kankri is at the head of the table and glowering in your direction, you wave at him a bit bemusedly, and he jolts and waves back. It seems that he wasn’t even aware of your arrival, too engrossed in waiting for someone else. Kanaya, however, calls out to the two of you and gestures at some empty chairs in between her and Karkat; once you’re seated, the latter of the two bangs his head on the table.

“I am so done,” he seethes into the wood. "I am so entirely done and this fucking thing isn’t even in full swing yet. Eridan, say something vapid so I can have a good laugh.”

"Well fuck you too, Kar," Eridan snaps, reaching over and stealing a cup of brown, bubbly liquid from in front of his friend. He takes a swig and makes a disgusted face; you know it probably doesn’t taste anything like the sips of brew you and he managed to sneak when you were little up in the Burbs. "God, this is the worst beer I've ever tasted,” he whines. “Why do people even drink this shit?"

"If you're just going to complain about it," Karkat drawls, snatching his glass back, "then you don't get any more of my drink. Go order your own."

Eridan sighs and rolls his eyes before turning to you and asking, "Do you want anything?"

You think about it for a second, but then decide that you want a clear head for any discussions that might occur. "No thanks. If I feel like something, I'll have a sip or two of yours."

"Fine," he says before getting abruptly out of his seat and loping off towards the bar.

It's quiet in your little corner for a moment before the guy sitting by Karkat says, "So that's Callon Actium. He’s kind of a douchebag in person, too. I'm not all that surprised."

"You know he goes by his middle name, and I'm sure he'd say the same about you if he even cared to notice the presence of a mere mortal like yourself," Karkat replies. "Anyway, introductions. Sollux, this is Feferi. Feferi, Sollux. Now be friends."

"Hello," you greet him, leaning around Karkat to get a better look at him. He's got short, dark brown hair and massive sideburns, plus computer lenses that glow dimly—one side red and the other blue—hiding his eyes. When he spoke earlier, you noted that he had a bit of a lisp, and he probably could use a bit of dental work. You think Eridan is a pretty thin guy, but at least he's got some muscle; Sollux is just a skeleton with skin on top. He's probably in the lower four, who've had trouble getting rations in the past couple of years. The Vantases are only decently fed because Porrim and Kanaya are sixes. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

You can't see his eyes because of his glasses, but you can tell he's looking at you. “Yeah, same,” he responds, sounding uninterested despite his words.

Since the conversation at this area of the table obviously isn’t going anywhere, you take a moment to take in the surroundings. The first thing your survival instinct tells you to do is look for all the possible exits; you find a back door that says “Employees and Overbeveraged Only” and appears to lead to the alley behind the bar, plus a long window on the other side of the room above a large booth that’s fitted into a corner. Otherwise there are a few doors leading to what you assume are rooms for _private_ use, as well as stairs that lead up to another floor with a velvet rope across the opening to show that you’re not supposed to go in there.

On Kankri’s side of the table, Porrim is perched elegantly in her seat, completely zoned out with her eyes fixed on the wall. You don’t recognize anyone else with them, though you can connect the guy with the red and blue computer band around his eyes with Sollux (whatever brand they’re wearing, it’s probably obscure enough that even Eridan hasn’t heard of it). Meulin is probably over there somewhere, and after everything Kankri has said about her, you want to meet her, but you’re not entirely sure which one she is since all you know about her are facets of her personality, not appearance. Though you’d certainly like to meet everyone, now doesn’t seem to be the time. They all seem to be waiting for something.

“So…is this it?” you ask Kanaya, turning a bit in your seat so you face her. She’s absentmindedly twirling her drink stirrer in a full glass; you wonder if she’s even taken a sip yet.

She looks up when you speak, raising a thin eyebrow and countering, “What did you expect?”

You have to think about this for a minute. “I don’t really know,” you answer, since your hopes had been extravagant. “Karkat said it was an ‘equality club’, so I was under the assumption that we would be getting free t-shirts after we sing hymns holding hands. If we just haven’t gotten to that part yet, I’d be glad to start us off!”

Kanaya chuckles at your joke and lets go of her stirrer. “I don’t think anyone here is well versed in anthems.”

“We could probably hear some sort of sea shanty, if we got Eridan drunk enough,” you muse.

“If you get me drunk enough I’ll _what_ , Fef?” Eridan questions, sliding back into his seat.

“Oh, nothing,” you respond innocuously. “What’d you get?” The drink looks fruity, which is what he likes the best if he doesn’t want to get entirely hammered, but you can’t place it.

“Some kind of tequila, triple sec, and lime combination,” he tells you nonchalantly, taking a little sip afterwards to accent his words. You quirk an eyebrow at his description, but before you can get to speaking, Sollux leans around Karkat and says, “ _Wow_ you’re pretentious, just call it a margarita like everyone else on this godforsaken planet.”

Eridan sets the drink on the table, narrowing his eyes and mouth curling into the beginning of a scowl. “Call it whatever you want, it’s just some fuckin alcohol. Jesus. Who _are_ you, some drink critic?”

Sollux adjusts his glasses and mutters something under his breath before saying louder, “Some dude, it doesn’t matter,” and taking a swig of his drink. At first glance you think it’s beer like Karkat’s but upon further inspection, it’s soda. “Don’t talk to me and I’m sure we’ll get along _just_ fine.”

By the look on Eridan’s face, you can tell that it’s physically paining him to not make fun of this kid’s lisp. You kick his ankle to remind him that _no,_ that isn’t something he should do, especially since he’s had his own speaking issues. He sighs and downs half his margarita, which at least occupies his mouth. Before he can set it down, you swipe it out of his hand and take a small swallow yourself.

“Anyway, Kanaya,” you say as you try and get back on track, “is this a regular night? Drinks with friends and minor seditious discussion? It doesn’t seem very…”

“Exciting?” she finishes for you. “Yes, I’d say this is a rather good example of what goes on. Just wait a little while, though, and new people will start to show up. Kankri has a way of attracting the right kinds of skeptics. Everyone here isn’t even a quarter of the people he’s recruited; most just check in once a month to make sure we aren’t taking serious action yet. He’s trying to affect a large amount of people before getting more involved in the public eye, and according to him we are nearly there. Until then, though, even if people don’t necessarily want to discuss politics the entire time, a lot of friends come to catch up with each other.” 

“Trust a Vantas to start a gossip club,” Eridan remarks, rotating a ring around one of his fingers to occupy his hands. “I’m surprised you’re not heading it, Kar.”

“ _You_ need to shut up,” Karkat snaps. “Did you even just listen to half of that?”

Before Eridan can answer, a hush falls over the other section of the table and Kankri jumps out of his seat, staring at a newcomer. “ _What in the world were you thinking?”_ he demands.

If you’d ever seen this man before, you’re sure that you would remember him, because his look is so distinctive that it’d be hard to forget. He’s wearing a black vest accented with white strips that you think are _bones_ (hopefully not real ones), and skintight red leather pants that work to emphasize his really nice ass. The color of the latter matches the streaks in his otherwise black mohawk, and his face is handsome, despite its bruised condition. From what you gathered at breakfast this morning and mentions of him on occasion by Eridan, you bet this is Rufioh Nitram.

“Sorry I’m a bit late, there was traffic on the south side,” he says amiably, smiling slightly. _A charmer_ , you note mentally. “I don’t see how that’s a culling offense.” 

“The riot, Rufioh, _the riot_ ,” Kankri hisses, crossing his arms over his chest and drumming his fingers on a sweater clad bicep. “Last week we told you _explicitly_ that it would be a horrible idea, and look what happened! We’re getting punished, people we don’t even know are getting punished, and _everyone_ is suffering!”

He taller man lets out a low whistle. “Damn, even the bucks? That sure is a shame.”

Kankri’s eye twitches, and Porrim gets up. “Do I always have to be the voice of reason?” she demands, voice loud but controlled. “Jesus, listen to you two. Sit the fuck down and keep in mind that we aren’t the only ones here. Maybe if you guys could get off your high horses we could actually do something successful for once.”

“Porrim for president!” a girl that you don’t recognize calls out, and the tension diffuses a bit. Kankri falls back into his seat and Rufioh pulls out a chair next to him, and they hunch together and begin speaking rapidly in hushed tones. You can’t make out the words, and you consider moving closer to eavesdrop when out of the corner of your eye you see Eridan looking at you. He glances away once you meet his gaze, caught in the act of staring, and he bumps your knee with his. You bump him back and have another taste of his drink. 

“So Kar, does Rufioh come around much?” Eridan inquires. He’s picked up his drink in order to twirl the liquid into a minor whirlpool of forced nonchalance.

Karkat looks bemused at why Eridan would care, but then seems to remember that they both have the same employer. “Yeah, every week he shows up to butt heads with Kankri.”

“It’s too bad that they can’t get along,” you say.

He snorts. “Hell, it’s downright _creepy_ when they’re on the same page. Nitram sometimes gets in these moods where all he can do is worship Kankri like he’s the fucking messiah until he gets told ‘no’ to another one of his ideas, and then they’re back to squabbling like toddlers.”

“Huh,” Eridan huffs. “Ruf’s usually a pretty laidback guy.”

Karkat just grunts at that and takes a gulp of his beer; the expression on his face tells you that he doesn’t think it’s superlative either. He catches you looking at him and narrows his eyes, but you just smile and turn away.

The interesting stuff seems to be reserved to the other side of the table, so you let yourself zone out until you can find an opening to insert yourself in their plans. Kankri and Rufioh are still talking about the riot, which you’d like to know more about, but now isn’t the best time. Porrim is leading the others in a discussion about rations and what’s available, which is attracting some people that look like newbies—

“ _Peixes_.”

A chill runs down your spine. Though it was said a few tables away and was barely above a whisper, the woman who uttered it might as well have screamed it in your ear. It takes a tense moment for you to realize that they’re not talking about you ( _why would they be?_ your mind reasons, _you’ve given them no reason to suspect anything_ ), but about your sister.

“They say she’s got her own practice now,” the woman remarks. 

“Genetics?” her partner questions.

She scoffs. “What else? It’s the only field for a family of oppressive sadists. Her doing anything else would be like a Makara turning away from the Church.”

“But I thought she was doing administrative work for the main hospital,” the man protests. “Peixes Senior can’t be expected to run the place while she’s working on ‘advancements’.”

The woman gives a shrug. “Well, I guess she’s doing both now. I’m not a fucking expert, Khyle, I just know what I hear!” There’s a short lull in the conversation before she transitions, “Hey, you know what I heard about the Archbishop’s kids the other day?”

As they’ve turned away from your family, you no longer care about what else is said. Swallowing the revulsion that appeared in your throat at the mention of your surname, you turn back to your table and try to focus on the goings on that you actually came for.

You’re surprised that you heard the conversation over the screaming that’s escalated. Having the supposed head of an equality club yelling at another member is bad for publicity, but maybe it’s a common occurrence? It seems that the quiet arguing they had going on for a few moments didn’t stick, nor were they going to remain seated. Angling your body towards them to match the postures of everyone else at your table, you listen.

“Did you really not think they were going to do anything?” Kankri demands, his face completely red. “If something happens, they _always_ go for the lower levels, and it’s _always_ ration cuts. Your supercilious, demented, fucked up way of thinking is going to take down an entire class of people if you don’t reign it in.”

Dropping expletives—even just one—is how you know that Kankri Vantas is truly angry.

“Like you’re much better,” Rufioh says firmly. He can make his voice carry over the entire room without raising it to a yell, and by the looks of it he’s well aware of that. Kankri has always had wonderful words with compelling meanings, but he’s had to earn his listeners; you can already tell that Rufioh could have people wrapped around his finger by the quality of his voice. “Always talking about the future and promising things will be much better for our children— _if_ we’re even on the breeding list,” he adds with a certain tone that makes you believe he was removed from it. “Well, I say _fuck that_. Make the world better for us, _right now_ , because if we keep putting it off it will never happen.” His voice gets louder, but he still isn’t screaming. “Take to the streets! Destroy, fast, riot! Whatever it takes for them to listen!” He grins, but you see none of the insanity in it that you expected; it’s pure, straight from the heart with no reservations and no lunacy. “Fight for yourselves!”

Kankri no longer looks angry. You saw that emotion fade from his face as Rufioh raved, and now all that’s left is cold displeasure. “Fine,” he deadpans. “You have two choices. You can take to the streets with only a fraction of the people we have, get them killed, and leave the rest of us to suffer the consequences, or you can sit down and be quiet.”

There are a few moments of silence before Rufioh lets out a short, breathy laugh and falls back into his seat. All of the tension leaks out of your body as you feel like a bomb has just been defused, and your shoulders slump a bit. “You can’t hold me off forever, Kankri,” he asserted. “I am the voice of the people.”

“So am I,” Kankri rebuts. “And so are Porrim, and Meulin, and Mituna and Latula and everyone on this goddamn hunk of earth. We are all people, and until we have enough projected support from _everyone_ , we will not make any movements, and none of them will be violent.”

Rufioh shakes his head slowly, leaning back in his chair and pulling out a box of cigarettes. Running the pad of his thumb over the top of the cylinder, he puts it in his mouth. The tip of it turns a light blue as he inhales. His exhale of smoky breath puts an end to their quarrel.

Before they can change the topic, the desire to _say_ something wells up within you, and you can’t hold it back. “What if the desire for bloodshed is in the majority?” you call, and then every eye is on you. Carefully sculpting your features to show you mean no harm and are only inquiring innocently, you continue, “What will you do then?”

Kankri considers this, looking at you like he’s trying to pierce straight into your soul to get a better look. It will never work; you’ve been taught too much control, though you’ve tried your best to throw a lot of it away. However, there are some things that can’t be unconditioned.

“If you want a violent revolution,” Kankri declares, “take it somewhere else. We don’t need a vote on that particular subject, as it’s been evident since this group’s formation that we are not going down that route. What has begun with spilt blood should not be ended with it.”

“Then what do you expect to do about the bucks in the Burbs?” you inquire. Carefully, you make sure that there is no hint of malice, incredulity, or arrogance in your tone. “I’m sure that you are well aware that they will not take kindly to any sort of insurgency.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” he agrees, “but they’re people. Even though they set themselves up like gods, they are _people_ , and they need a reminder that we are as well.”

 _Oh, honey,_ you think a bit pityingly, _if only it were that easy._

Perhaps this would be a better topic to discuss with him in private; you _are_ new to this, after all, and for all you know he’s already explained this several times over. With a small nod, you break eye contact and sink back into your seat. It’s a clear move that tells everyone you’re done, and they get the message.

Turning to face the bar at large, Kanrki says, “I’m sincerely sorry for anyone who was discouraged by our quarreling. I can assure you that it was irregular and will not happen again.”

“‘Irregular’ my ass,” Karkat grumbles.

“For newcomers who wished to hear what our group is truly about and ask questions,” his brother continues, “we’ll be getting to that shortly. I’m sorry for any delay.”

With that, he sits down and takes a sip of water. From what you’ve seen, he’s never been much of a drinker. Chatter starts up almost immediately, and you reach over and have a taste of Eridan’s drink to soothe some of the dryness of your throat. When you glance over at its owner, he looks bored. You nudge his ankle with your toe to get his attention, and his eyes dart over to you. “So the violent guy is your boss?”

“Well, not technically,” Eridan responds, holding his hand out as a request for his drink. You give it to him, and he takes a swig like he’s doing a shot to finish the glass off. If it had been full, you think the contents would’ve splashed all over his face, so the flourish was a bit ridiculous. “I mean, I report to him with my proof of kills, but he’s not really in charge of me. No one is.”

That’s not precisely true. The owner of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild is in charge of him, and you both know perfectly well who it is, even though their identity isn’t widely known in the Furthest Ring. Even in the Burbs it was barely said above a whisper. However, they never come down to the outpost, so it’s basically run by a couple of supervisors that make reports and such. You thought collectors like Rufioh held some power too, but according to Eridan that’s not the case.

You only notice the hush that’s fallen over your little equality corner when Eridan starts staying something else and his voice is loud in the sudden quiet. Karkat kicks his shin under the table and he yelps, sending a glare to his friend. Kankri has gotten out of his chair again, and is adjusting his posture to exude the right amounts of confidence and honesty. Leaning forward, you get ready to pay attention.

“I would like to thank all of you for coming out tonight,” Kankri starts, only a hint of nervousness in his tone. “I know that many of you have obligations, and it means a lot that you’re willing to listen. Though some may only be here for the atmosphere, I believe that even the most skeptical of you will find some value in my words. If you have any questions or comments, please wait until the end.”

 _Is he going to try to schoolfeed us?_ you wonder a bit incredulously. It’s not quite how you thought this would work. _I thought it was too late in the meeting for that._ _What if it turns out to be **boring**?_

“Our main goal is simple,” he continues. “Ultimately, we plan to gather enough support to put together very large, nonviolent protests, with the endgame being an equal representative government, an abolition of the genetic modification scale, access to services like healthcare, more advanced technology, and an end to discrimination.

“Now, I’m not naïve enough to say all of this is going to be easy. As I said earlier, we want to keep it as nonviolent as possible, but I know there will be bloodshed; the bucks are brutal players, and they will not let go of their values easily. I believe that if we get enough support that they will _have_ to listen to us, even if they deem us ‘lesser’ or ‘cullbait’. The future that I, and the other members of our group, envision is certainly obtainable; I have seen it.” The final phrase he speaks is not said with optimism or hope, but a crushing, undisputable _finality_ that sends a chill down your spine. “I have seen it, and it won’t be beautiful or heavenly or anything else like that, because those things aren’t practical, but it will be _real_.”

You think that you can certainly get behind this philosophy.

“How many of you are there?” a larger man at the table closest to your back calls out.

Kankri takes a moment to consider this, eyes rolling towards the ceiling and lip between his teeth as he thinks. “As it stands right now, I’d say around twenty-five hundred.”

Your lips part in surprise, a small puff of air whooshing out. 2,500 people. That’s more than the population of the Burbs, more soldiers than the military employs, more points than the combined IQs of your immediate family. It’s a meaningful behemoth of a number that is 10% of the total population of Canaveral and 11% of the Furthest Ring. Glancing to your left, you lock eyes with Eridan, and you know him well enough to see this disbelief coloring his expression.

 _There will be more,_ something within you whispers. _There will always be more, and they will never stop coming._ You have to hold back a shiver, but it’s a strong one so your shoulders still twitch involuntarily.

Looking back to the group, you see that the man who spoke moments ago seems unfazed. “If there are so many of you,” he drawls, “then why haven’t we had any more action from you? There are certainly enough of you to rally for something, and that’ll gain more supporters than meeting in a shady Crew bar.”

“Many people enjoy the atmosphere and camaraderie of meeting here,” Kankri defends. “As for why we haven’t made any bolder moves, it’s that those sort of things require months of planning and anticipation.” Perhaps you just imagined that his eyes flitted over to Rufioh’s smug expression and narrowed faintly. “I assure you that we _are_ working towards something more, but we need even more support first, because if the bucks ever get wind of this, we will be crushed. Hard.”

The man shrugs and goes back to leaning on a table.

Before someone else can ask something, he states, “Our endgame is mutual cooperation. A separate society isn’t preferable, but if that’s what it comes to, we can go somewhere else. We all know why we haven’t already.”

A strange mood falls over the bar patrons, and you don’t understand it because honestly, you _don’t_ know why they haven’t left already. Sure, the city is surrounded by a large metal wall, but you know of people in the Burbs that have gotten clearance to leave, and according your teachers it isn’t hard to take a plane to the nearby cities of Houston or Pasadena. If all else was impossible, you’re sure a new settlement could be started outside.

An instant later, you come to the conclusion that the government wouldn’t be happy with a new city-state, even if they don’t own the land that would be used. It would be a threat.

You’d ask about why no one’s ever tried to leave Canaveral, but some of the signals you’re getting from the others in the bar are telling you the answer is a universally known fact in the Furthest Ring. It would be foolish to question it in this setting.

“So, that leaves a compromise,” Kankri says. “When we get enough people, the bucks will _have_ to listen to us, because we are their workforce and without us, they couldn’t live as lavishly as they do. They can’t live without us, but we can live without them, and that is the ultimatum we may have to use. The bucks are so set in their belief that we are unequal to them that we won’t be able to convince the majority of them otherwise. And that is why we need some of them on our side.”

“You honestly expect that to happen?” Eridan interrupts haughtily, with only a small trace of bitterness in his voice. You desperately want to shut him up, but it would look too suspicious, even though everyone else probably thinks it’s the alcohol talking. You know exactly what he wants to add to his question—that they’re pretty much _brainwashed_ to think the way they do—and even he understands that’s too much for a thump to know.

With an expression of deep-seated resolve and a sprinkle of pride, he says evenly, “We already do.”

Eridan’s eyes widen at that. The rest of his face remains carefully blank, but his eyes say exactly what you’re thinking: 

**_????????????_ **

Kankri seems not want to elaborate on his declaration, so he goes back to talking about his plans and his morals and everything else that you should _probably_ be listening to. As he speaks, though, you don’t hear his words no matter how much you try because the only question on your mind is _who_?

Though your mind has frozen, time goes on. You watch Kankri’s mouth move but don’t hear the words that form, and after a few minutes Porrim steps up to take control. Unlike Kankri—who was sure to make eye contact with everyone who was listening and tried to make a emotional connection with his audience—Porrim talks at the wall, hands folded in front of her waist like she’s preparing to raise them for prayer. You’re sure that her words are relevant, but her body language tells you that she’s not a natural speaker like her housemate. When you finally manage to push the unidentified cooperative bucks out of your head, she’s finishing up the meeting.

“We’re sorry that we got off to a rocky start tonight, and despite the turbulence I hope everyone found the gathering to be… enlightening.” Her eyes flit over to you and Eridan, and you try to put on a smile for her even though you’re still dazed. You think she appreciates it. “With any luck, we’ll be seeing you all again next week. Thank you for coming.”

With that, it’s over. Some people disperse quickly, but others order more drinks or approach the main group to introduce themselves and shake hands with the influential members. You, Eridan, Karkat, and Kanaya hang back until all of that’s done with, staying much quieter than usual as you wait for Kankri and Porrim. Luckily, they don’t take too much longer, and soon you’re heading outside into the crisp February air.

On the walk home, barely anyone says a word, and those who try to start a dialogue (mostly you) fail. You’re beginning to feel _exhausted_ , so you decide to lean on Eridan slightly as you walk, letting him guide you as your eyelids droop. You can tell that he’s starting to feel weary as well; maybe he’ll actually be able to get a decent night of sleep for once.

As you walk, you think about the meeting and the promise Kankri’s group holds. The people involved are the sorts that can get things _done_ , even if they’re taking a while to work up to it, and you’re entirely convinced you want to be a part of whatever it is they have planned for the future. If you ever decided to tell them who you are, you’d be able to give them really good information without suspicion, which would help them _a lot_.

Maybe it’s just the tiredness talking, but right now, you feel very hopeful.

It feels like an eternity before you make it back to the apartment building. Right before you move inside the stairwell, Kanaya grasps your shoulder. When you turn to her in bewilderment, her gaze is focused on something up and behind you. “Would you look at that,” she breathes, her hand falling back to her side.

Everyone follows her line of vision. You expect to see the regular old pro-eugenic billboard (or maybe someone finally took it down in favor of advertising something that people living in the building could _afford_ ), but what you see is nothing of the sort. The entire thing has been spray-painted over in black to the point that you can’t see a single sign that the advertisement was ever there, and blasting from the center is _light_ , tendrils of it curving and weaving in and out of the silhouetted figures barely visible surrounding it. In bright red lettering, covering the scene in what looks like blood, are the words, _“Blessed are the poor.”_

Since the lights are still on, it’s obvious that no one important has noticed the defacement yet. The shine they throw on the graffitist’s canvas shows that the paint is still wet, and small drips come down from the crimson words. “Is…” Eridan starts, before swallowing and trying again. “Is there a signature?”

Karkat is the first to respond, “Yeah, fucknuts, a guy spray-paints treason and then puts his name on it. Must be a fucking genius, a savant of the highest caliber.”

“There’s something in the corner,” Eridan snaps back, pointing to something small on the bottom right side. “I’d climb up and look but I don’t wanna get arrested.”

“Hold on,” you say, squinting at it. You’ve got better eyesight than anyone in the group, though Eridan had once surpassed you in the better vision contest. There _is_ something in the corner, but you’re unable to make it out from the ground. “I’ll probably be able to see it better once we get upstairs.”

With you in the lead, everyone clambers up the stairs, stopping when they get to your floor. You’re closer than you were earlier and can make out some purple text in the corner, but that’s about it. “All I can really tell is that it isn’t words. It might be a symbol of some sort.”

“Well that’s useless,” Karkat says, pushing off the railing he was leaning on. “I’m heading home.”

“Maybe there’ll be something in the news about it,” Porrim speculates. “If certain media outlets beat the police here, they’ll certainly put it on the public server. Either way, it definitely is… interesting.”

“It wasn’t there when Eridan and I left earlier,” you say. “Whoever did it must be a quick worker.”

Eridan yawns, which causes you to mirror him. “Let’s head in,” you suggest. “It’s been a long night. Kankri,” you turn to him, “thank you _very_ much for deciding to include us in this! I loved being there.”

“You were a pleasure to have,” he responds, smiling. “I’m very glad you enjoyed it. You and Eridan are welcome to come back next week.”

There’s an awkward lull in conversation where you really want to inquire about the identity of the buck(s) involved. Is it someone you used to know? Someone _influential_? Or are they a part of the lowest caste in the Burbs, one of those who lived below and only managed to pull themselves up through cold brilliance and ambition?

But it wouldn’t be right to ask. You’re new to this, and you need to avoid looking suspicious.

“Before we depart,” Porrim says, looking at your roommate and crossing her arms, “Eridan, your streak’s getting dull. Want me to come over and re-dye it for you tomorrow? Say around noon?”

He looks a bit taken aback; every time he’s ready to get another dye job, he usually has to go to her. Sometimes he even does it himself, though the upkeep of the violet is pretty different from the dyeing he’s familiar with. “Sure, I guess,” he says with a shrug, then looks at you. “Fef, you got anything going on tomorrow?”

After a moment of thought, you respond, “I was going to head out to Derse to see if they needed anything in particular when I do my next scrap run. Ray said there might be a copper shortage within the next week or so, and I haven’t spoken to her since January and I want to check up with her. I’ll probably be out when you come by, Porrim.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she says at the same time Eridan offers, “I can come with you, if you want.”

“No, you don’t have to,” you assure him. Though sometimes when he comes with you he makes the trip less of a chore and more of an outing, there have been instances where he’s picked fights that he should’ve known to avoid. There’s a reason you’re no longer allowed on the eighth floor of the market. “Have fun with Porrim.”

As you say that, you notice that Porrim has the same strange expression on her face that she had when Kankri first invited you and Eridan to the meeting. She shakes it off quickly, but you’re sure it was there.

Eridan goes inside immediately, but you take another minute to look at the billboard. The attention to detail is astounding, especially for graffiti, and you think the quote is from the Bible, but knowing that only counts out about fifty percent of the population. It’s still not that much to go after.

Just as you’re about to say fuck it and climb up the ladder to see the symbol, a police car pulls up right under it. You’re sure to retreat into the apartment before they get even a glimpse of you. It’s always best to be as careful as possible when they’re around not just because you’re not who you say you are, but because there’s one officer in particular that comes down here on occasion that would know you in an instant.

The next time you look outside, you know the graffiti will be gone without a single trace of it being changed for the better. If they put the same old pro-eugenic advertisement back, you might just have to deface it yourself. These people that put so much faith in the genetic manipulation scale—the _true_ bucks—aren’t nearly as intelligent as they think they are if they believe they’ll ever get a customer from this area of town. Hell, the fact that they’re scouting _at all_ makes you sick. The worst part is that you can’t even bring yourself to hate them; all you can feel is bitter, overwhelming disappointment. You don’t want any part of this legacy.


	3. III- 252 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator: Eridan

When it was first decided that you and Fef would be sharing the lone bed in the apartment, there were certain unspoken rules that were put into place. You couldn’t eat in bed because the crumbs would attract bugs (especially in this dingy area of town). If someone started hogging the covers, it was entirely okay to yank them away. Under no circumstances were you allowed to sleep naked or in only underwear, unless “naked” is defined as “topless in the summer when it’s too fucking hot to function”. One rule that was _explicitly_ laid down in the start was that there was a line dividing the bed exactly in half, and nothing ever crossed it.

That is, unless you’re sleeping and a body part just happened to go over the invisible boundary.

During the two plus years in the Furthest Ring, you have been woken up by Fef’s hand flailing over and smacking you in the face countless times. Her hair gets all over the place, and bits of the untamable mass sometimes get in your mouth or on top of one of your hands. Sometimes you twitch in your sleep, and you’ve been told that during those nights, Fef gets kicked a couple of times.

But those are the small annoyances. Once in a while, you get little things like her hand resting on your back, or one of your feet pressing against hers. This morning, it’s the latter, and you wiggle your cramped toes a little bit. Fef shifts minutely, and for a moment, you’re worried that she woke up, but her breathing doesn’t falter and her eyes remain closed. For an instant, everything feels just right.

And then the moment passes.

You get up, heading into the bathroom first to take care of some stuff before putting on a kettle; it feels like a tea kind of morning, especially since the stuff you like can only be found at Derse and Fef is heading there today, so it’s a great time to use up the rest of this pack. Looking out the front window tells you that a storm is rolling in from the west. The wind is already beginning to howl, shaking the couple of palm trees just peeking over the railing of the outside corridor. Rain is definitely in the forecast, which means that Fef shouldn’t go to Derse, but you know she won’t listen to you when you voice your concerns. She rarely does.

You leave the kettle to heat up and go back into the bathroom to shower. Midway through, you hear some movement in the bedroom, meaning that Fef’s awake. It’s weird to be out of bed before her for once, because even if you wake up first you usually linger to at least _try_ and catch a little bit more shut-eye; maybe that’s a sign you should lie down where you are and fall asleep under the spray. It’s a tempting thought, but you don’t succumb to it.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting with her on the couch, tea in hand as she compiles a list of things she needs to pick up on her supply run. “You need some rounds for your new plasma pistol, right? Give me the specs.”

“…Um.” You love this gun, you would _marry_ this fucking gun, but you haven’t really thought to dissemble it to get the information. You’ve been sort of busy, with signing up to become part of a political movement and all. “Hold on.”

You leave the living room and head back to the bedroom, where your trench coat is hung up neatly in the closet. Reaching into the inner pocket made for concealed weaponry, you pull out the gun, letting yourself drink in its beauty. As the _Fawkes_ is modeled after an antique, the barrel is smooth and perfectly rounded, mounted at one end to a fusion reactor that could be one of the bangles that Fef puts on her wrists for all of its symmetrical roundness. It fits into the handle without any strange bulges. The pistol must be a special edition model of some sort, because instead of being the usual black, the entire thing is painted pure white—a color you’ve never seen on a gun. Atop the long barrel is a tiny laser sight and regular guider, just visible enough to be functional. From what you know of military grade weaponry from your father, the lead/polymer bullet’s journey from the clip to the chamber passes it through a small area where the reactor imbues the capsule with plasma and contains any radiation as to not harm the shooter. If you don’t want the bullet to melt in the chamber (which, if you didn’t notice first off, would do some serious damage to your hand, not to mention the released radiation), you’ve got to shoot within the minute you cock it.

When you _do_ shoot, the ammunition affects the target like a regular bullet, at first. Once the casing melts away, usually after about thirty seconds, if it wasn’t a killing shot and you didn’t manage to get the slug out, the plasma seeps into your body and burns everything it touches. Certain death follows.

After running your thumb affectionately over the calligraphy that is carved into the barrel to display the model, you head back out to the living room, where Fef has been scribbling away. The page is half full, which is understandable since neither of you have been to Derse in over a month and you’re running low on hard to get items like buck newspapers and bleach. She puts down the pen when you sit back down next to her, and you make sure the reactor is off before popping the magazine out. It’s empty, since the contractor that left it to you only had two bullets in the chamber, but you can still tell what the specifications are. “9mm hollow, round nose. The clip fits twenty rounds, so they should come in boxes of at least that much, and with a gun this sensitive I’d only trust the ones that Pulsar makes.” You pop the clip back in. 

Fef writes all of this down. “I think Felix was supposed to get in a shipment of ammunition sometime last week, so he should still have some. It’s hard for anyone below a level 7 to even _want_ a gun like that, so those kinds of bullets should be easy enough to get if he keeps a stock of them.”

“I still can’t believe you know almost everyone there by name,” you say, placing the gun on the table so the barrel faces the wall. “Felix the arms dealer, Ray the antique enthusiast, Delrina the crazy ‘pharmacist,’ which is a term I am using _very_ loosely…”

“Speaking of that,” Fef interrupts, “do you need a Serenity refill?”

You purse your lips and think about it. Your last dose was on Saturday, as you take a pill every two days for your genealogical psychosis. It’s a disorder that only seems to show up in people with a long history of heavy genetic modification, and it’s one of the only things that genealogists can’t seem to get rid of through alteration. The “buck crazies,” as those who have heard of it whisper, are particularly strong in your family line on both sides. Seeing as Fef’s a twelve, you’re surprised she hasn’t shown any signs of it. Serenity is the only drug on the market that treats this weird personality deficiency, so Crocker Corp. has quite the monopoly on it.

Taking the pills has been part of your routine since you started showing signs of the condition at age eleven. Without them, you would be subject to rages, emotional instability, violent thinking, and a wide variety of other symptoms that a thump would have you locked away for. You hate to be dependent on something that the scourge of the earth has created, but it’s better than the alternative. “I think I’m running a bit low,” you say, “but I should be alright for another week or two. Only buy some if they’re going to run out any time soon.”

She nods and adds them to the list with a little question mark beside it. “Look it over.”

You do so, leaning over so your head rests on her shoulder as you read. It seems like she’s got pretty much everything you can think of for the time being, except for, “More dark brown hair dye. You used the last of yours last time, remember?”

Fef makes a little sound of recollection and jots it down. She doesn’t use the exact same color you do—your brown is a shade or two lighter—because that would be sort of suspicious, seeing as you aren’t siblings in your fake identities or your real ones. “That’s it, then! I’ll be back by sundown.” Before getting up from the couch, she leans over and gives you a kiss on the cheek. It makes your feel warm all over. “Don’t let Porrim cover you in tattoos!”

“Be careful,” you warn her, even though she knows. People rarely get caught going to Derse, and the police turn a blind eye to it as the black market helps prices from legal retailers stay lower, but it’s happened. Plus, today there’s the added danger of the oncoming thunderstorm.

She’s out the door before you can think of anything more meaningful to add, and you’re left alone for the next half hour. When Porrim arrives, you’re flipping through the four channels you have, trying to find something suitable, even though the cable is even worse than it usually is since it’s started pouring and the wind has kicked up. Your futile search for quality programing is ended, and you let her in before she can pound on the door even louder. In her hands she carries a box with the hair clips, bleaching kit, violet dye, and everything else she’ll need. Seeing as she’s a hairdresser, she’s got access to all of this and can get it pretty cheaply. “Hey, for once you’re not wearing something that belongs in a ‘ _what not to wear’_ magazine,” she remarks, gliding through the door. 

“Well it’s not like I constantly dress to impress you,” you drawl, shutting the door and following her into the bathroom. You’re only in rattier clothes because the dye can get on your clothes, and you don’t want to ruin anything nice. “ _Kanaya_ , on the other hand…”

Rolling her eyes, Porrim gestures for you to sit on the side of the bathtub. You do so without protest as she starts mixing up the bleach. Taking a couple of clips from the box, you get the section of hair you need to re-dye and push the rest back with a headband. "Lean over the tub and close your eyes; you don't need to get any other shit in them,” she directs.

After your sardonic _haha_ , silence takes control as she coats the comb in bleach and touches up your roots. You can’t see any blond—you’re too careful, always prudently dyeing your roots brown to match the bulk of your hair. Once she’s done with that, she leans back to let it sit a few minutes, dropping her tool and leaning back against the sink with her arms crossed behind her head. “What'd you _really_ think of the meeting?" she asks, not even bothering with trying not to be blunt.

"I told you guys last night what I thought of it,” you respond, scoffing a bit. “Ain't that good enough?"

"If my memory serves me, it was Feferi that said something about it,” Porrim recalls. “Plus, Kankri ‘Political Reform Gives Me A Boner' Vantas _was_ right there. I practically _raised_ the kid, but that doesn't mean I'm enthused by one hundred percent of what he says. Just tell me what you really think."

She's taken on an aggressive tone, which you're pretty used to coming for her, but Porrim usually doesn't go after you like this unless you’re being particularly dickish. It throws you for a bit of a loop. "Sounding kinda hostile there, Maryam," you comment. "Why are you so certain I didn't find his ideas enthralling?” When you’re only met with deadpan, you concede, “Okay, I do admit that I think he's a bit optimistic about certain things, and I’m sure Rufioh's being more practical about the whole scenario even though I haven’t heard a lot of his philosophy yet, but hey, there's nothing wrong with wanting equality. I guess I’ll just have to see what happens next week before I make any further judgments." You clear your throat awkwardly.

You aren’t really aware of your last statement until Porrim says, “So you’re definitely coming back?”

“I mean…” you try and backpedal. “Well, I know Fef wants to, and—”

“Where she goes, you go,” she finishes for you. “I’m aware.”

Something else seems to have captured her mind with that last bit, and curiosity takes hold of you. Is she trying to hide something? Does she know something you don’t? God, you hate it when that happens. For once, you swallow your questions and wait until she voices her thoughts or the mood blows by; whichever comes first.

It turns out to be the former. “Why do you cover it up?” she asks.

“Cover what up?” you question, quirking an eyebrow. _Very vague_. “The bit of brown that gets concealed when I dye my hair purple? Well, you should understand as you do the _exact same fuckin thing_ in green. Fashion statement. Anyway, purple’s a great color.”

Porrim looks you dead in the eye, straightening her posture like this has been something she’s been working up to for a very long time. Her demeanor makes a chill run down your spine. “No, why do you dye the rest of your hair brown? Sure, blonde’s predominantly a _buck_ color, but it can be nice. It’s not like they have a monopoly on it.”

Your heart jumps into your throat. “I…” you choke out. “What?”

“Eridan,” she deadpans, finally dropping her gaze and examining her nails instead, “I am a hair stylist. I can tell who dyes their hair, and sometimes you miss small spots of your roots. What I want to know is,” she looks back up, “why the ruse?”

“I…” You trail off, not having any idea what to say. A cold sweat has begun to accumulate on the back of your neck, and a little voice in the back of you head whispers, _this is it. Here’s where everything goes downhill, where you have to protect yourself and Fef above all else._

_You know what you have to do._

“Hey,” Porrim speaks through the haze, laying her hand on your shoulder and giving it a little shake. “Hey, kid, turn off the fight or flight. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

 _Yet_.

But maybe she doesn’t think you’re high up. She did say that blonde was _predominantly_ a buck color, and that’s not necessarily saying _I know you’re a buck you piece of shit liar._

That might be the case, but you can’t take the chance.

There aren’t any weapons in the bathroom—aside from a pair of scissors, but that’d be too messy—and your pistol is still lying on the coffee table in the living room. You’d be able to get to it before Porrim realized what you were doing, but _goddammit_ you used all of the ammunition. Harpoon it is, then. Getting rid of the body in broad daylight would be an issue, so you could just dump it in the bathtub and then run to Derse to get Fef. And then…

And then—

What the fuck are you _thinking_? This is _Porrim_. She—she’s a _thump_ —a bizarre, mindfucked _tat_ —but she’s been good to you, and to Fef, and oh god you need to snap out of this—

Then everything’s wet. Your hands go to your face to wipe water out of your eyes as you cough and sputter, wondering where the fuck _that_ came from. A towel lands on your lap, and you bury your face in it, barely remembering to not smudge the dye in your hair.

“Well that was the worst zone out I’ve ever seen,” Porrim remarks lightly, and your _fuck you_ is muffled into the towel. Her tone goes serious and a little accusatory. “Eridan, you couldn’t have been thinking that I’d actually _hurt_ you. You know me better than that. Hell, we’re practically family.”

Once upon a year ago, you would’ve been offended by that proclamation that you’re related to her, but now it just makes you feel guilty that you were planning her death moments before. “That’s not w-what I was thinking,” you say in a small voice, tossing the towel aside. “I just… you really dropped that one on me, Por.” Your forced laugh sounds more than a bit maniacal.

But she just sighs, curling her hands together on her lap. “The reason why I bring it up now is because, well… you know the associations blonde hair has. Now you’re becoming a part of the whole equality movement, and I don’t want to include you if it jeopardizes me and mine.” Her voice is firm, and you understand where she’s coming from even if you don’t like it. “I don’t think you’re a spy or a blood purist or anything like that, but I have to be sure. For Kankri’s sake.”

Words stick in your throat, and you swallow a few times before you can answer. “Porrim,” you say. “I swear, I don’t have any ill intentions, and I know Fef is probably as excited about all this as you are. I…” You’ve never felt actual _shame_ because of how you were before, but you’re feeling pricklings of it now. “We’ll see what I think about it as the whole thing progresses, but I’d never do anything to hurt Fef. Ever.”

“Honestly, I’ve never really understood why you’re so devoted to her,” Porrim says, examining a fingernail. “Sure, you’re in love with her, but there’s something else there that I don’t quite understand.”

You scoff, tilting your head back a bit as color floods your cheeks. “I’m not in love with her.” The lie comes easily.

Porrim sighs, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. That still doesn’t explain the other connection to her.”

The old phrase _Peixes’s favorite pet_ comes to mind, but you’ve long grown out of that brand of insult. Instead of bringing that up, you say, “I owe her.”

Quirking an eyebrow is how Porrim questions _In what way_?

“I just…do,” you say, feeling uncomfortable. You rub the back of your neck, which gets sweat all over your hand. “And that’s all I’m gonna fucking say.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes as Porrim preps the violet dye and you both ruminate. If she decides to press the buck issue any further, you’ll lie. Simple.

Just when you thought she’d dropped the subject, she asks quietly. “Did you guys ever live up there? In the Burbs?”

There’s a quality in her voice that you’ve never heard before—it’s timid, almost fearful like she doesn’t really want to know the answer. The lie is heavy on your tongue, and before you can make yourself say _no_ , you nod.

“I’ve never heard of anyone lower than a seven living there.” The bit of vulnerability is gone from her tone. Her voice is hard and rough and slightly accusing. “But you didn’t live there for very long, did you?”

You don’t know how she came to that conclusion (perhaps it’s because she’s not used to bucks displaying sanity), but it’s a relief. “No, only for a few months,” you answer. You’re starting to get the feeling that she never thought you were very high on the spectrum to begin with, so you’re going to play on that all you can. “They only let people on the lower three fourths of scale stay if they’re of incredible use.” Adapting an incredulous, mocking facial expression, you say, “Oh god, Por, you didn’t think we were _high_ , did you?”

Instead of picking up on your bit of bluff, she barks a laugh. “Hell no, you guys are too fucking _normal_. I mean, you were weird when we first met, but that’s because you were fresh from the Burbs, right?”

“Yeah,” you agree. It totally wasn’t because you thought they were lowbred scum that should be annihilated or anything like that. Nope.

Before any of that comes out, you want a topic change—a fast one. Topics flit through your mind, and in a stroke of genius you settle on one. “You’re learned quite a bit about me today, Por. I think I earned some insight into the Maryam family history.”

“Oh,” Porrim says, sounding nonchalant, but you can tell by a slight stiffening of her shoulders that you surprised her, “have you?”

You wince as she tugs a lock of your hair particularly hard. Despite being thick headed, you have a rather sensitive scalp. “Yeah. I mean, you now have enough incriminating evidence to get me kicked out of… well, _anywhere_ down here, so why don’t you give me a bit of leverage? How did one Porrim Maryam get to where she is today?”

Normally you wouldn’t be so straightforward, being the fine manipulator that you are, but Porrim is a person who appreciates such bluntness, and you figure it’ll pay off. It does. “Fine, fine, but it’s not like I have anything I’m hiding.” Ouch.

“Before I shacked up with Preachy and Shouty, I was in the Dolorosa Order,” she explains, and the name rings a bell but you can’t quite place it. “Hell, I was abandoned, so I was _raised_ there. It wasn’t particularly rewarding work in terms of pay, but hey, I got food and a roof over my head and that was enough for me.”

As she finishes the foil and strips off her gloves, it occurs to you what the Dolorosa Order is, and you have to hold back a bark of laughter. “You were a bloody _nun_?” you say incredulously. “A wimple wearing, hymn singing, celibate, honest to God _nun_?”

You don’t worry about offending her until it’s too late, but as you pale she just huffs a laugh and rinses her hands. “Well, not exactly, in essence yeah,” she states. Once you think about it a little, you can understand. Even though her exterior is tough and she can be _incredibly_ aggressive, Porrim is one of the most compassionate, levelheaded people you know. It also kind of explains her staunch feminism; the Church takes in a lot of rape victims and homeless girls these days. She’s probably seen a lot of the bad shades of the world, even more than you’d previously thought.

“I’m sure I don’t look it since I’m still so attractive, but I’m twelve years older than Kanaya,” she says. “I remember that on the day she arrived at the cloisters, I was sorting some canned food that had been donated and one of the senior nuns came down and told me that a little girl had been dropped off with an identification chip that matched mine. You can imagine my surprise.”

You hadn’t even thought about how Kanaya fit into all of this. It seemed farfetched, really. “Wow, that’s some shitty parenting,” you breathe. “Twelve years later and you still can’t handle having a fuckin kid so you pawn them off at a nunnery? Jesus.” It takes a moment for your mind to catch up with your mouth, and when it does, you trip over your words. “Holy shit Porrim, wow, I’m sorry, I really need to get my brain to mouth filter checked. Please don’t pound my face in.”

She just laughs. “Eridan, I had shitty parents that I’ve never even met except for when I was popping out of a uterus, I get it. Honestly, I can barely believe that Kanaya came to me either, but it showed we were siblings in the karyotype.”

“It must’ve been startling,” you muse, wiping a bit of dye off your shirt. “Suddenly having family. So when did you leave?”

“It was about three years later, and there was a bit of an…escapade. I didn’t think it was safe anymore, so I took Kanaya and got out of there.” Her mouth twists almost bitterly, but then it’s back to more of a nostalgic set. “To think I almost stayed. Everything would be so much _different_. Kankri and Karkat… they’re just as much of my family as Kanaya is now, and I would never have met them if it weren’t for what happened.”

“What _did_ happen?” you ask. “I don’t remember any kind of church scandal from back then.”

Porrim snorts and shoves your shoulder lightly. Sadly it’s your bad one, and you clench your teeth and emit a squeak. Not even paying attention to you, she says, “Eridan, you were so young back then. Kanaya’s older than you, right?”

“Only by a couple of months,” you mutter, but she doesn’t seem to have heard.

“Anyway, the media was censored. Hell, I bet word didn’t even get out of the cloister. I know that after I left I never heard a word about it.”

Hmm, shady church affairs. You weren’t raised religiously and neither was Fef so you don’t know a whole lot about it, but the Archbishop and his family were always invited to big dinners and such that all of the important people attended, so you’re somewhat familiar with the Makaras. You’ve even spoken to the youngest son once or twice, but that’s sort of a sore subject.

In about an hour, Porrim is packing up her stuff so she can go to work. Your streak is vibrant once again, and you thank her as you walk her to the door. She gives you a tightlipped smile in return.

Just before she goes, she turns back around to pat you on the shoulder. “Sorry if I freaked you out with the buck stuff earlier,” she says. “I just had to know. I won’t tell anyone as long as it doesn’t become an issue.”

“Please don’t,” you say cheerfully, “or there will be consequences.”

Porrim tuts as she opens the door, “Thinly veiled threats don’t win you any points, Actium. See you later.”

You almost say _that’s not my name_ as she goes, but catch yourself just in time. It isn’t the time or the place for some sort of revealing event.

Seeing as Feferi is running some errands down at Derse, it’s about time you did something productive too. You clean yourself up in the bathroom, making yourself presentable, and pull some nicer clothes on. You’ve been wearing a lot of button up shirts lately so you don’t have to mess with your shoulder, and you miss your cozy sweaters. Hopefully you’ll be able to pull things over your head again within the week.

The wind has died down since you last checked the weather, but you still grab an umbrella as you walk out the door. The first thing you do is check the billboard, and all you find is the old phone number for that geneticist that had the advertisement before the whole thing was vandalized. Whoever has the practice must be terminally stupid if they think it’s worth it to pay for an ad in the most destitute area in the city, but you just shake your head and move on. Getting mad about the billboard was always Fef’s thing anyway.

There’s a long line at the supermarket, as there always is on ration days. You get into the queue and prepare to wait; it’s an hour before you make it to the door and are able to scan your ID for a rations list, which is based on your GMS rank and those of your household. The only differences from last week’s list are that blueberries have been replaced with oranges and there’s no sugar.

Mindless item collecting is boring as fuck. You have to wait in so many lines, deal with assholes, and get meager amounts of food that will barely get you through the week. When you’re halfway through the gas line, it’s announced that they’ve run out. Even though you don’t really need any, it’s always good to stock up, and you spend the rest of your shopping experience in a sour mood.

The pharmacy only has the basics, so Serenity is never in stock; it’s not like anyone down here really needs it, anyway, since GPsy’s effective pattern is exponential, levels 9+ being the worry areas, and most of them are in the Burbs. Even though the occasional thump _does_ show signs of GPsy, they’d never diagnose it in one so low. Anyway, even if you could get it here you wouldn’t, because there are too many questions and tests involved to get a prescription.

Two hours later, you’re almost done except for the confirmation and payment line to get out of the store, where all of your items are checked to make sure you have what you’re allowed to take. Usually this line goes the fastest, but you’ve been standing in the same spot for the past few minutes. Tapping your foot impatiently, you moan loudly, “Hurry the fuck _up_.”

“Quiet back there!” the guy in charge of the line yells before going back to the dispute. “So you got it first?”

“Yes,” a stout man in a tattered green suit says. His eyes are tired, his shoulders and moustache droop, and his hands wring together nervously. “Sir, it is _imperative_ that my partner gets this insulin, we’ve run out of our dosage. You must understand how hard it is to acquire.”

“ _I_ understand,” says a woman in jeans who’s hugging herself around the midsection. “I understand better than anyone, believe me, but you took the last dose and my son needs it. This can’t wait until the next shipment comes in.”

“ID cards,” the checker demands, holding his hand out. The woman goes for hers quicker while the man pulls his wallet out, looking devastated. Just from that, you can already tell how this is going to end.

Scanning both through the computer takes almost no time at all. The man in charge pulls the data for both parties and examines both. Squinting, he turns to look at the portly man. “Sir, you may be a five, but your partner is only a three. This woman and her son are fours, so despite you being the purchaser, you partner's status overrules yours in this case. If you don’t exchange the insulin, I’m going to have to call security.”

If Fef were here, she would step up and call out the injustice. She’d go over there and try to figure out a compromise, so they could both get the hormone and help their loved ones, but you’re not Fef and you never will be, so you do what everyone else in line is doing: pretend you’re not paying attention.

The man tersely hands the package to the mother. When she takes it, looking even more miserable than she had a second before, his expression softens in a way that tells her she isn’t to blame. He makes the rest of his purchases without a fuss, but as he walks out he spits on the floor by the checker’s feet. If he’d been a reactionary guy, the man in green could’ve been arrested for the affront, but the glob of spit goes ignored. The five more minutes it takes for you to get out of the store feels like an eternity.

After taking everything home, you grab your harpoon gun and sling it over your back. The pistol only had two bullets in it to begin with, so you won’t be able to use it until Fef returns with her supplies from Derse. She’s been gone for a long time, since the world is slowly descending into evening, but she usually takes a while when she goes. Usually most of her time is spent with her friend Ray, so it’s not like the trip is all business. Leaving the umbrella by the door because the rain stopped, you head out.

You decide to run down to the BHG to see if there are any jobs available. Since you spent your last haul on Fef’s birthday stuff and most of what you had saved up on today’s rations, you need to catch up. Anyway, it’s Monday—people tend to hate each other just a little bit more on the first day of the week, and it’s the day when the most listings go up.

You’re not disappointed. When you arrive, there are a wide variety of faces to choose from, including a guy who skipped out on parole (alive), a lady who cheated the contractor out of a small sum of money (dead), and a guy who hacked one of the security cameras near the elevators (either). You think you’ll do that last one because _wow_ that’s good pay, and maybe a muscle job for later; you can’t take anything too complicated, since your shoulder is still fucked up and you don’t want to make it worse. Taking the two listings down, you go the receptionist. “Two,” is all she says, and you head into the office, unsure of what kind of reaction the collector is going to have.

“I was hoping you’d come in today,” Rufioh smiles, putting down his phone and turning his attention towards you. “Got a minute before you head out?”

“Sure,” you say uneasily, taking a seat across from him. Your gun presses hard into your back, so you take it off and lean it against the side of your chair. “Anything in particular you want to vocalize?”

“I was just surprised when I saw you at the meeting last night,” he says, resting his chin on his hands. “If I’d known you were interested, I would’ve invited you along months ago. We need more guys like you.”

“‘Guys like me’?” you quote back questioningly.

“Well, you’re…” he struggles for a word. “Less of a pacifist than the lot of them, I guess. _You_ got what I was saying, right? About them not listening to words without any force behind them?”

“Oh, yeah,” you agree, nodding. “There’s a lot of uncertainty with the whole thing because it seems like a lot of you don’t understand how goddamned _brutal_ the bucks can be, but they’re not going to just listen docilely as you try to rewrite their way of life.”

“I know that,” Rufioh snorts. The ring through his nose shifts slightly. “They’ll slaughter the whole lot of us. That’s why we need to show that we have actual _power_ behind us. The police are certainly prepared to kill; we need to go in there knowing we’ll be shot at, and be willing to shoot back.”

Against your will, your thoughts turn to your brother: Cronus, the reluctant district manager that you’ve managed not to run into during your extended stay down here only because you know where he goes. He’s one of the reasons you know so much about the military/police system. Well, him and your father.

If they saw you in one of those rebel groups, they’d kill you, even if they realized you were kin. It was their job, even if you know Cronus hates it. Or at least, he did when you left.

Bringing yourself back into the present, you say, “I’d be more worried about chemical weaponry, if I were you. It can be much more devastating.”

Rufioh shudders. “Yeah, definitely. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re showing some interest in the group.” He smiles easily at you. “Will you be back next week?”

“Yeah, probably,” you respond.

Nodding, Rufioh says, “That’s super. Now for business. What listings have you got?”

You hand the papers over, and he registers them both to your license. “I can give you details for the MfH job when you get back with the kill.” Rufioh never questions whether or not you’ll be bringing the asshole on the listing back alive whenever there’s a death option; you always choose the latter. It’s easier. “USB, please.”

Taking off your glasses, you pull back the left temple and it slides open, revealing a compartment with a small metal stick inside. You remove it with deft fingers and drop it into Rufioh’s extended hand, and he hooks it up to his computer. In moments, he’s downloaded the necessary information you need to chart the hacker’s movements. People aren’t allowed to submit criminals for bounty without the approval on of the district legislator boards, and in order to get that there needs to be a known location. The police don’t pick these people up because they’re more enthralled with Burbs stuff and the “bigger picture”, plus they also double as the standing military and all that entails. The BHG was founded to deal with more misdemeanors than felonies, though the definitions of both have shifted over the years.

You fit the USB pin back into the frame of your glasses and flit through the information. He tried to cover his tracks but did so sloppily, leading the cops straight to his computer. It was their call to hand it over to the BHG, as a guy this bad couldn’t be that much of a threat. According to his file, he sets up shop at a bar called Hammer Time on Monday nights to get a good lay, which is why the listing went up today. Hopefully if you go now, you’ll catch him early and have time to do the MfH job.

And catch him you do. You left your harpoon in Ruf’s office because you can’t use that sort of thing on a hit like this; it’ll just get in the way. The hook itself is easy, as all you have to do is confirm his identity and you have the entire job in the bag. Coming onto people is a very easy thing for you to do; it’s almost _too_ easy convincing him to follow you. You push him out the back door with his hand halfway down your pants, and the moment you’re sure there’s no one else around, you knife him.

It’s quick, and he doesn’t even make a sound, save for some gurgling. With a civilian that isn’t a gang member like your last two hits were, the police will be informed of his death as soon as you submit the canister to Rufioh, and they’ll send someone to dispose of the body. The whole process is the strangest combination of legality and vigilante justice, and it makes your head spin when you think too hard about it. You drag the body behind a dumpster, so it stays out of the public eye while the police can easily find it, and use the knife to cut off his thumb and stick it into the canister.

Though you avoided getting blood on your clothes (save for the cuffs of your jacket, but that’ll wash off easily enough), your hands are coated. You cringe as you shove them deep into your pockets, thinking that even though the outside is simple to clean, getting shit out of the pocket lining is hard. However, certain sacrifices have to be made if you don’t want to make a scene.

Your right hand closes around something that crinkles, and you frown; you know emptied your pockets before you left the house. Curling your fist around it, you pull out a piece of paper. Aside from the specks of blood dotted on it from your hand, it’s entirely blank.

 _Weird_ , you think, stuffing it back in. _Maybe I can use it for scratch paper or something if I need to calculate the angle of a shot or determine how much beer I can drink before I slip into a coma._

Before any iota of guilt can gnaw at you, the cash reward pops into your head: $12,000 for a hacker that had _some_ threat potential, but not much. It was a lucky listing, one that doesn’t come around often because kills aren’t often police sanctioned but legislator authorized, and there’s quite a difference between the two in terms of pay.

Rufioh is gone by the time you get back, so after washing your hands, you get the key to his office and unlock it. You sling your harpoon gun around your shoulders before getting sent to the first room. This collector—a young, petite woman named Ryla—is efficient, taking your proof of kill and getting all the paperwork done in a matter of moments. “Are you still planning on doing the MfH job tonight?” she asks, squinting at her computer screen.

“Yes,” you respond, drumming your fingers on the stock of your gun.

She types something in, squinting at the screen. After a moment, she sits back in her chair. “Okay, I’ve got you and two others signed up. Be back in an hour.”

You stroll out of the building, wondering what the fuck you’re going to do now when your stomach makes a sound like it’s about to die. Food seems to be in order.

Stuffing your face with greasy food would have made you retch with disgust if you’d done it in the past, but now it’s just sustenance ( _really shitty_ sustenance, but hey, food is food, even when it’s grown from a tube). You eat some cheesy chicken sticks and a hamburger before you head back to the BHG.

…And come face-to-face with Equius Zahhak. This is going to be a great way to spend your night.

“Eq,” you greet him cautiously, shoving your hands deeper into your pockets on impulse.

“Callon,” he returns with a terse nod. He refuses to call you by your “middle name” because it’s apparently unsophisticated to go by something that’s just supposed to be an initial that you use to sign legal documents. “Have you also taken a muscle for hire job this evening?”

“Yeah,” you respond. Clearing your throat to dispel some of the awkwardness, you say, “I thought you stopped once you realized Nep could take care of herself.”

Shrugging his massive shoulders slightly, he responds, “Sometimes I must make exceptions.”

Okay.

Soon, the other guy who’s coming joins you, and at nine o’clock sharp, a small man in a crisp business suit prowls in. His eyes flit over all three of you, and it looks like he’s going to claim that you’re not meaty enough until he sees the gun on your back. “They’ll do,” he tells the receptionist offhandedly before exiting. You guess you’re supposed to follow.

Tucking his hat further down over his face, the man speaks to the three of you in low tones from where he’s walking, slightly in front like he’s leading a pack. “All you have to do is stand there and look intimidating. This is hopefully going to be quick because I just need to speak to someone. I don’t need words from any of you, so just keep your traps shut and you’ll get paid. Understood?”

You almost say, “Yeah,” just to spite him, but nodding is a better course of action. You want to ask what kind of an MfH job just requires _standing_ there, but once again that would require speaking and you want your money. The man leads you four blocks up the street, takes a shortcut through an alley, and then takes you another six blocks until you find your destination: the Canaveral Justice Building. 

Well, that’s the _official_ name. It’s actually a prison, but not many people stay in it very long since the city needs laborers, and criminals and debtors usually just stay there until they receive their work assignments or go through questioning. The building is one of the oldest in the district—dusty red bricks, cracked glass, and mold stained stone make for a very grungy façade. You’re not expecting to see much on the inside, but when you enter it’s so much like stepping back into the Burbs that your stomach drops to your toes.

Everything is pristine, from the long ebony desk at the far wall to the white marble floors. The walls are drip-painted, long black lines meandering down from the ceiling to reach the baseboard, giving the place a slightly sinister feel. Your group’s footsteps are loud, echoing through the room that’s too large for its purpose. The man at the desk sighs heavily when you make it to him, as if he had been expecting you but wish you hadn’t shown. “Lawrence is out for the night.”

“I know a lie when I smell one,” your man says. “He’s in his office just like he is every other Monday night, so give me clearance.”

The guard’s gaze shifts to the three of you, sizing you up and determining where this confrontation could go. “Weapons license,” he demands from you, and you comply. Deciding rather to be safe than sorry, he buzzes you up.

You end up squished between Zahhak and the wall, taking an elevator to the top floor of the building where the offices are. The businessman takes the interregnum to change his demeanor from firm and intimidating to assured and cocky—a switch you haven’t seen the likes of in years. You know the processes involved acute emotional control, and you were once very good at it, but Fef has been working to make you forget it all. Seeing it done leaves a lump of something cold in your chest.

It turns out that the man wanted you so he could scare the overseer into taking the warrant off his friend. The plan is far from foolproof, but they make some sort of compromise you don’t pay any attention to; you’re busy trying everything in your power not to let the man notice you, because his name is Gaius Macke and he’s one of your father’s acquaintances.

That said, he’d been over for dinner a couple of times when dear old Dad held occasional public safety meetings. You tended to spend those nights hiding away in your room or going over to Fef’s but you’d met the man a couple of times and if he recognized you even a little bit, you would be screwed.

Lucky for you, he’s much more focused on the businessman than you, and half an hour later you’re walking back into the street. Even if he had looked hard at you, he probably wouldn’t have recognized you.

The pay is mediocre, but you anticipated that. You head back to the apartment and reach it by eleven, confusion greeting you when the lights aren’t on. “Fef?” you call softly because usually she waits for you on the couch, even if she ends up falling asleep with the television on. An icy sheet of cold washes over you when you see her stuff is by the door, so she has to be in the apartment but _where is she_?

The bathroom door is closed but the lights are off, so you open that up just to check; it’s empty. You can already tell that the bedroom is dark so maybe she’s in bed, sleeping soundly because she had a long day and didn’t feel like waiting for you—

But she isn’t in bed either. _She’s not in the apartment!_ your thoughts scream as you prepare to run upstairs to check with your neighbors, but then you see something shift by the window. 

Your adrenaline rush spikes and starts to fade. “Fef,” you breathe, relieved. “Hey.”

She’s curled up in a kitchen chair she must’ve carried in, chin resting on her knees as she sits by the window, staring out at the dark belt beyond it. You see her turn towards you, but it’s too dark to see her expression. “Hey,” she says quietly.

You join her, standing behind the chair and hesitantly putting one of your hands on her shoulder. She reaches over to cover it with her own. “What are you doing?” you inquire.

“Thinking,” she says almost dreamily. “My day was… interesting.”

Your eyebrow quirks. “How so?”

She shakes her head, removing her hand from yours and getting up. “We’ll talk in the morning. I’m tired.”

Great, now you’re going to be up all night wondering what you missed. “Please?” you whine.

Smiling, she shakes her head. “Sorry. Anyway, it’s nothing that you’ll find entertainment in.”

“Okay,” you say dubiously before grabbing your clothes and going to change in the bathroom. As you strip, you wonder what got her thoughts all aflutter. You consider telling her about the incident at the grocery store, but she’ll just yell at you for not intervening. There _is_ one thing you should tell her about, though: Porrim.

When you come back out, she’s already under the covers, and once you’ve put your clothes away you daintily sit on the edge of the bed. “Hey, Fef?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to tell you something.”

She turns toward you, letting you know she’s ready, but she still asks, “Can it wait?”

“I’d… rather it not,” you respond. “Fef, Porrim knows about us. Well, about me.”

Fef sits up suddenly, hands fisting in the sheets. “What?”

“Today while she was doing my hair, she confronted me about it because she knew my natural color was blonde and was wary about letting us into the group. I…” you’re still ashamed of your reaction, even if it was just in your head, and you feel guilty not telling Fef about your minor lapse in sanity but you’re certainly not going to say something about it. “We talked it out, and she said she trusts me, but that’s _Porrim_. She’s known us ever since we came down—she still doesn’t know all of that—and if _she_ had doubts about us, what could happen if others get wind of it? Fef, I’m telling you, we’re not safe there.”

She’s quiet for a long time, staring blankly at the comforter and worrying her lip. Finally, she says, “I don’t care. You can stay home if you want, but I’m still going to the meetings. If they’re as truthful about their ideals as they say they are, they can’t reject us.”

Sighing, you relent. “Fine. Keep going, and I will too. I need to look after you.”

Even in the dark, you can see that she disagrees, but as long as she doesn’t ban you from coming you don’t care. “Do the rest of them know?” she asks.

“No, just Porrim,” you say. “She said she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“All right.” She slides back under the covers, turning away from you. “Goodnight, Eridan, we’ll talk in the morning.”

Gulping, you nod and leave the room. You’re not tired, not in the slightest, so you head out into the living room and turn on the TV. Currently there’s a segment on the news about advancements in genetics in the past decade, and they’re about to have someone on for an interview. You’re interested until the guest turns out to be Glenda Peixes.

You can’t change the channel fast enough. Trying to find another program to view proves to be futile, so you put the news back on and watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to contain my rambling to just my end notes, so there's half as much of it (in theory). In between posting this chapter and the last, I made some posts on my fanfic blog about the [GMS](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/60594628864/the-genetic-modification-scale) and [genetic modification](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/60594354766/genetic-modification-in-insurgency) in general, so if you're confused or just curious, head over there. I am using _Insurgency_ as my NaNoWriMo novel for this year (the first time I've ever done a fanfic; oh how the mighty have fallen), and I'm actually already done with chapter four, I only have one more scene to write in chapter five, and I'm 2000 words into chapter six, so it seems like I'll be getting a better update schedule soon. I hope you enjoyed this installment, and thank you for reading!


	4. IV- 252 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, 252 days again. I promise there will be a time jump after this because whatever this is counting down to just seems so far away. Thank you to my lovely beta derseandprospitcollide!
> 
> Narrator: Feferi

You dream of drowning again.

As far back as you can remember, you’ve dreamt of drowning. When you were small, you always were submerged under the warm waters of your bath and blocked from air by an iron shield of bubbles. In the years leading to your departure from the Burbs, there was a shift in the nightmares, changing the scenery from the bathtub to the large pool behind your building. Since moving to the Furthest Ring, you drown in the ocean like any sophisticated swimmer, under tons of water with malfunctioning scuba gear and a fierce desperation that’s almost feral.

And every time, your father pulls you out. 

He looks a little bit different each time, but what thoughts you have scream that he is yours. You can see your features in his even though you’ve never met him: the same soft nose and round eyes that are so different from your sister’s angry slashes of features, the humanity in his gaze that your mother lacks. Glenda never mentioned your father while you lived there, always turning your questions away with a wave of her hand, but you know you must resemble him, as Meenah is _her_ spitting image.

And every time, your father pulls you out, but you are already dead.

This time is no different. You are suddenly jarred awake, inhaling sharply but not screaming—never screaming. Staring at the solid ceiling helps you control your breathing, and it doesn’t take long for you to feel like yourself again. These dreams come and go in some sort of routine that you completely fail to understand; you can go without one for a year before they come back every night for a week. Even though you would not consider yourself a Freudian, you can’t help but wonder if your dreams are trying to tell you something.

But dream interpretation is a pseudoscience. You’ll never get anything from it.

Looking to your right, you see that Eridan’s side of the bed is already empty. It’s a strange phenomena, you getting out of bed after him, but if you listen hard you can hear the shower running, so he’s probably just passed out on the floor in there. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time such a thing occurred.

The room is cold, and that keeps you in the cocoon of covers for just a little while longer. When the water in the bathroom turns off, you force yourself out of bed, heading over to the wardrobe to gather an outfit and quickly change.

Eridan walks in as you’re pulling your hair back into a ponytail. You watch him in the mirror as he looks at the bed and gets a confused little ridge between his eyebrows before he spots you. “Good morning,” you greet. “You’re up early.”

He shrugs, self-consciously adjusting the towel around his hips. You try not to let your gaze linger on his chest for too long, though you do like to indulge in something nice once in a while. “The wind woke me up; I think it’s gonna storm today. There’s supposed to be a front coming in.”

There’s a question in his tone ( _Are you still going to go to Derse, Fef?_ ) but you don’t answer it because that’ll just start up an argument about you going to “dangerous” places without him and how he _knows_ you’re not weak but he’s the one with the weapon license and blah blah blah you’ve heard it a million times. When Eridan’s involved, the annoyance and eye candy sort of balance each other out.

Anyway, you’ve got some pretty good boots. A little storm isn’t a deterrent.

“Did you make coffee?” you ask as you fiddle with the clasp of one of your necklaces.

“No,” he responds as he rummages through the dresser. “Today felt like a—”

“Tea day,” you finish with him, and he gives you a look that conveys just how witty he thinks you are. You grin innocently back at him before flouncing out of the room to get yourself a mug of whatever he whipped up.

It’s some of his herbal bullshit that you can only get at Derse, which is why he decided to sacrifice the last two bags today. By the time you’re done with your cup, Eridan is dressed and trying to convince you not to go. You win the debate, of course, and soon you have compiled a list of things you need. Porrim should be there soon to keep your petulant roommate company, so you head out.

The wind howls as you make your way down the outdoor staircase. When you reach the bottom, you peek in the opposite direction of where you’re heading to take note of the previously defaced billboard. There’s a phone number for the geneticist office that paid for the ad space, but nothing more. You wonder if anyone managed to get a picture of the art before the police took it down, but you doubt it. Sighing, you plunge into the storm.

You would’ve grabbed an umbrella if it were just raining, but with all this wind it would just end up gnarled and useless. A little water has never stopped you from doing anything, so you just secure your hood tightly around your head, tuck your ponytail inside, make sure the jacket is zipped securely before making a run for the bus stop overhang.

It’s only about a hundred feet from the exit, but you still get thoroughly soaked. Shivering, you lean against the glass siding, watching the rain pelt it as if settling a vendetta. Within five minutes, a bus pulls to the stop and scans to see if there are people waiting before opening the doors.

A man that wasn’t waiting with you somehow gets in front of you, shooting inside with a quick skim of his card on the panel. You take more care, watching the confirmation light turn green before taking a seat near the head of the bus.

Not many folks are using public transit at this hour. Most people down here have more “traditional jobs” that would’ve required them to report hours ago, but you’re a freelancer and Eridan’s employment situation is… _special_ , so you two don’t quite run the usual schedule. Two more people get on the bus between you and your final stop, one of them being an elderly man that struggles with the stairs. When you get up to help him, he complains, “I don’t know how this bus can see anything in this godforsaken rain. If it crashes I won’t be surprised.”

“At least it’s automated,” you try to soothe him as you lead him to a seat. “Back when there were actual bus drivers, there were a lot more accidents.”

“Are you _sure_ about that?” he questions, sitting down hard. “The rain could mess with the cameras and sensors and such.”

Beaming, you say, “No, sir, the technology is too good for that.”

He just grumbles and turns away, deeming you unworthy of conversation and opting to instead stare gloomily out the window. Unfazed, you head back to your original seat to finish out the half-hour ride.

The rain has died down by the time you get off the bus, as you’d expected, since the dark weather spells don’t often last long. Derse is almost a mile away from the bus stop at an old beachfront hotel that must’ve once been very beautiful. It’s been set for demolition since before you were born, but it has yet to be touched. Though the bus stop is technically in Crew territory, Derse is just _barely_ on neutral ground, so neither Crew nor Felt (or any of the other, less prominent gangs that surface) have any control over it. The views from the top are phenomenal; maybe you’ll be able to convince Ray to go to the roof with you today.

The first floor in use is the third, as the bottom two have been damaged by water and sand to the point where they’re gross and unusable, except for a single shop on the second floor that you’ll be visiting later. The third floor—out of twelve—is your first destination. You and Eridan split the money before you left, him getting just enough to cover the rations and you getting the rest. As you live pretty much paycheck-to-paycheck, most of your money is blown on shopping days.

You follow the sloping ground down under the hotel to a parking lot. There’s a service elevator located in the far corner that’s used at the official entrance and exit, but you guess the storm knocked the power out because the only other people you see come from the stairwell. As you ascend, your footsteps echo softly on and off the concrete, playing with your shadow on the wall that’s highlighted by dim emergency lighting.

It turns out that the entire power grid is down. A lot of the stores have probably been closed until they can get it back on, but you know Ray’s shop will be open, lit by candles and smelling of dust.

And that it is. The hallway you come out in takes you to another flight of stairs, which you climb until reaching the third floor. The door to _Curios and Culminates_ is wide open, the only shop on the floor that is so welcoming. No one is in there shopping, as most of the people who come just browse; artifact galleries don’t have much of a place in regular society, but she’s told you that she gets the occasional collectors and hoarders that come in and buy up half the store. Even bucks come in sometimes.

“Feferi!” Ray exclaims from behind the desk, beaming as she puts down the book she was reading and sits up straight, pushing her fedora back on her head as she does so. “It’s been so long, I was getting worried!”

Your smile is a bit sheepish. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I’ve just been busy.”

“Wait just one second, I have something for you.” She jumps off of her stool, one foot landing silently while her metal one _clunks_ against the concrete floor as she scampers off into what used to be a bathroom.

“I was digging through the dump again,” Ray tells you, things clattering and crashing as she shifts through the mess, “and I came across something that I thought you’d like! It’s just supposed to be for decoration, but technically it’s classified as a weapon so Eridan will have to come by and get it.”

She backs out of the bathroom and shuts the door. Clutched in her mechanical hand is a dull, oil-stained trident, the ends filed down to nubs and slightly bent in the shaft. “I’m sure it can be cleaned, straightened, and sharpened, if you want to do that,” she explains as she hands it to you. You accept it reverently, taking great care; it’s a lot heavier than you were expecting it to be, but you’re strong. “It’s an aquatic symbol and I know how much you like the ocean even though it’s a polluted shitheap. Happy birthday!”

It feels weird that it’s only been two days since your birthday. Hell, it’s felt like an eternity since the meeting just last night. You’re touched that Ray remembered, despite the fact you probably only mentioned it once a long time ago, and you clutch the grungy thing to your chest. One of the points lightly scrapes against your chin, but not enough to even sting. “Oh, Ray, thank you!” you grin. “I’m going to fix it up and it’s going to be _gorgeous_ , just you wait!”

“I’m glad you like it,” she says. “Did you do anything special on your actual birthday, or were you unable?”

There are major differences between birthdays in the Furthest Ring and birthdays in the Burbs. Back at the Peixes estate, the only things that made it a special day were getting your favorite dinner and unlocking new material on the schoolfeed. Down below, the anniversary of your birth is a day of celebration, where friends go drinking or exchange simple gifts or—if you were financially sound—throw a party. It’s sort of a weird concept to you and you don’t particularly like doing that sort of stuff on your birthday. (Similarly, Eridan opted for clams instead of festivities back in January.)

“Eridan went down to the docks and got us shrimp! I haven’t had it fresh in years,” you sigh wistfully. Ray heads back over to her stool while you take a seat on her desk, propping the trident next to you. “He also bought me _The Little Mermaid_ , so there’s been sort of a ‘trident’ theme this year. That one’s a king, though.”

“Did you go out with your neighbors?” Ray inquires.

You shake your head. “I didn’t even tell them. It’s not that important.”

Ray sighs good-naturedly and shakes her head slowly. “Feferi, I _know_ you know how to have a good time; you’re a fun girl! You should come out with me to celebrate. There’s…” now she looks a bit hesitant, but her demeanor is still pleasant. “There’s this place I go to sometimes on Sunday nights that I think you might like. You should come with me next week, I promise we’ll have fun!”

Before you can respond, the door creaks and you and Ray whip your heads to the side to look at the intruder. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Ray’s grin grow as she hops off her stool. “Come on in!” she invites. “It’s about time you two met.” The boy walks into the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a slight smile on his face, and _oh_.

 _We already_ have _met_ , you almost say, blinking at Sollux. Though you’d been paying attention when you met him at the meeting last night, you didn’t link Ray’s Sollux with Karkat’s Sollux. How stupid of you.

“You were at the Midnight Runners last night,” Sollux states, giving you a slight nod as Ray reaches him and twines their fingers together.

“Oh!” Ray turns towards you without letting go of his hand to give you a look of surprise. “You were at the meeting? Goddammit, I always end up skipping the best nights.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Sollux reassures her, running a thumb over her knuckles. “Most of the time was spent watching Kankri and Rufioh yell at each other. It wasn’t anything special.”

 _Thpethshial_. You’re not even sure how he managed to pronounce that one. His lisp is almost cute, in a weird, endearing way. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to sit with you this Sunday!” you proclaim, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“Definitely,” she nods. “So how’d you hear about it?”

“The Vantases and Maryams are the ‘neighbors’ I’m always referring to,” you explain. “We have breakfast with them on Sundays, and Kankri invited us. I don’t know why he didn’t do so sooner, but I’m really glad he finally did!” With a smile, you inquire, “How did you guys get involved?”

Ray and Sollux share a look, “I’m going to go look around some. I’ll come back later, AA.”

“Okay,” she responds, leaning up to peck him on the lips. He leaves quickly, absentmindedly waving to you only when you call out a goodbye, and Ray goes to sit back behind her desk. Sighing, she looks over at you. “Feferi, I’m going to tell you some stuff about me because you’re my friend and I trust you, okay?”

Wary, you nod. Her smile is strained and she leans forward on her desk. “Ray is the name I use at Derse, but I usually go by Aradia. It’s just easier to have different work personas, especially since Derse isn’t exactly a legal place to be. But at the meeting, people are going to be calling me Aradia, so I don’t want you to be confused.”

Using a nickname is a sensible thing to do, especially here. You don’t know why Sollux left for that little tidbit, especially since he’s her boyfriend and probably knows her name. You’re supposed to be using a fake name too, but you and Eridan ended up at the hospital before you got your fake IDs so you had to use your real first names. ‘Coldra’ and ‘Callon’ never really caught on after that, though ‘Caesar’ and ‘Actium’ became necessities. “So what should I call you?”

She shrugs. “Either is fine. Anyway, that’s not really all I have to say.” She looks hesitant, as if she’s trying to figure out how to phrase her words lightly. “Feferi, have you ever wondered how all of _this_ happened?” She pats her mechanical elbow and her metal foot taps the floor as she blinks at you, her bionic eye's iris a brilliant red. You know she has more artificial parts on her torso as well. “No need to answer, everyone I’ve ever met is curious,” she continues before you can say anything. “You see, I come from a very low level family. My mother and sister are maids, and I would’ve been too if I didn’t take up all of this.” She gestures at the store around her.

“They were always working, so when I wasn’t at the schoolfeed building, I was roaming the streets. I made some friends—Sollux was the first, and ever since we’ve been inseparable.” Her smile relaxes at that, and you can understand why; you know how wonderful that kind of relationship can be. “I also met Tavros Nitram. Was he at the meeting?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. “Maybe? _Rufioh_ Nitram was. Is that his brother?”

Aradia nods. “Yep! Tavros is a bit more… mild-mannered, so he probably didn’t stand out as much as Rufioh did, though you’d know him if you saw him. Well, one day Tavros and I decided to go down to a game station and try one of the live action roleplay simulators. We got addicted to one of the team ones, and we were pretty good at it! There was another team that we got pretty familiar with, and we played with them a lot, so it was only natural that after a year, we decided to meet in real life.” She’s kept her tone neutral and controlled thus far, but with her next sentence you sense bitterness leaking in. “We knew they were bucks so we were aware they’d be coming down from the Burbs, but imagine our surprise when they turned out to be a Pyrope and a Serket.”

Vriska and Terezi. As a cold lump of dread begins to form in your stomach, you think you know how this is going to end. You wonder what Aradia would think if she knew she was having this conversation with a Peixes.

“Terezi was alright,” she continues. “Angular and strange in every way, but she was never blatantly rude. Vriska was crass and insulting and she bullied Tavros constantly, but somehow they became good friends. I wish I saw how she was manipulating him, manipulating _both_ of us, but I was sort of… star struck. Pathetic, I know,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh, “but they lived in the _Burbs_ , they were in the upper half, they never went hungry and they were part of amazing legacies and I was _jealous_ of all of that.”

You want to tell her that it’s not all it’s made out to be, that there are so many expectations placed on you and you’re taught only competition and ambition so there’s little room for love; that people are sedated with decadent foods and mind-bending entertainment so no one would dare think that something could change (“ _They’re all trained little fools_ ,” one of your nannies used to tell you, _“because if they’re not distracted, perhaps they would open their eyes_.”); that being part of a legacy meant you were molded from the moment you were out of the womb, sculpted into a toy figure of your parents that would be their pawn until you were of age and beyond. Once you were old enough to understand what you were a part of, you didn’t want it because it would turn you into your mother.

“We all got along well enough, both in game and out,” Aradia continues, “but when we were thirteen Vriska and Tavros got in a fight and she pushed him off his apartment balcony.” She swallows. “Crippled him.”

You can’t hold back a gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. “Oh my god,” you say. You didn’t know Vriska well but Eridan was close to her for a while; you need to figure out if he knows what she did. Another part of your mind wonders if he helped her. “That’s awful.”

“I wish I could say that was the last I ever saw of her,” Ray says resentfully. “I talked to Terezi after, and she urged me not to do anything, but I didn’t _care_. She hurt Tavros, and I had to make her pay! So…” She takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t seem to steady her. She’s all fired up, and you understand why this would make her angry—if someone ever hurt any of your friends, you wouldn’t be happy about it either. “I got Sollux to hack into the system and put the police record of the incident on the main feed because they’d just swept it under the rug. And it made some people down here _angry_. Vriska’s mother got everyone to shut up easily enough and nothing became of it, but I refused to let her forget it. We’d send her pictures—lots of really horrible, gory stuff that I don’t really want to go into details about, and one day she decided she had enough and came down and gassed my house.”

Okay, _what_? Vriska Serket is officially crazy. Though you’ve always thought she was kind of a bitch, you were always civil with her for Eridan’s sake, but you never really understood how _awful_ she could be. It’s no surprise that Aradia joined Kankri’s movement after being treated like this.

“She got Sollux’s too, but he wasn’t home and it was cleared before anyone arrived. I, however, didn’t realize it was too late and the effects caused part of my nervous system to permanently shut down. My sister came home before it could kill me and got me out of there and took me to the hospital, where we met Kankri.” She sighs wistfully, and you see what you think is hope dawn in her expression. “Everyone in the lower levels had heard of Kankri Vantas. He was the first student from the Furthest Ring to be accepted into the genetics program at the university in the Burbs; how could that _not_ have made the news?”

Your lips part in surprise as your mind catches up with her words. _What_ did she just say about Kankri? “I…” You struggle to find words. “I thought he studied to be a doctor.”

“He took medical courses too, but his focus was in genetics. They said he was one of the most promising candidates in decades and he had a future waiting for him that was far above his natural station, but after four years, he left.” Shrugging slightly, she says, “He never really told anyone why. I was brought into the hospital just a couple of weeks after he started interning there, and I sort of became a pet project. He was _sure_ he could find a way to save me, and he talked to some very influential people he’d met while in the Burbs, and he got these made, all for no cost.” She knocks on the table with her metal elbow. “I owe Kankri everything, so when he first voiced his cause to me, I joined immediately. The bucks…” she huffs angrily. “They think that the world is only theirs, and that we’re just little chess pieces that do the hard work and consume resources. Vriska _used_ Tavros, and when it didn’t work out for her, she took it out on _all_ of us! Life shouldn’t _be_ like that, and…” she falls quiet. “And that’s why I joined the movement. It’s just so _important_ to our society, and we need to show the bucks that they’re not gods.”

Now may not be the time to ask, after she’s told you something so personal, but you think she’d know. Hopefully she’ll sense that the answer is important to you and understand why the topic shifted slightly. “Kankri said at the last meeting that there were bucks involved in the movement,” you begin. “I wouldn’t think that there are a lot, but do you know any of them?”

Aradia’s lips twist upward, but it’s not a happy expression. “There _are_ a few, and the two of them I know by name are Latula Pyrope and Aranea Serket. Terezi comes too, sometimes. Just my luck.”

Two of the most influential names in the Burbs, both in very different ways. “Wow,” you breathe. “Just… wow.”

“Yeah,” she chuckles. “I don’t think Aranea knows who I am, but I know Latula does. It’s been… awkward, to say the least. At least Aranea’s nice.”

The oldest Serket sibling has always been kind to you as well, but you’re not sure if that’s because of general niceness on her part or if she was making a good impression on her girlfriend’s sister. Either way, you also have no complaints, but you know what a volatile family she comes from. “Well, you’ve managed to do well for yourself even though Vriska’s a crazy bitch, so that means you won!”

“Um,” Aradia blinks, and you wonder if that was a weird thing to say, “yeah, I guess. Anyway, that’s all I really had to say about me.” As if sensing the change in the mood, the power turns back on. Aradia smiles, and it’s genuine. “Want to go get Sollux and head to Buster’s for lunch?” That’s a little hole in the wall right on the top floor of the hotel, and despite its ratty appearance, they make really good stromboli.

“Sure!” you agree, and you go to find Sollux.

* * *

 

“So what you’re saying is that you actually _live_ with that asshole?”

“Yep.”

“And you _haven’t_ killed yourself yet?”

You snort and take another bite of food. Sollux, as you inferred back at the meeting, knows Eridan from the internet, and they hold each other in some level of weird apathetic dislike. They couldn’t give a fuck about each other, but at the same time there’s something nettlesome about the other. With Sollux’s remark, you’re reminded of Nepeta’s similar reaction. “It’s not as awful as everyone seems to think it should be. Yeah, sometimes he’s a high strung priss,” you admit, the insult covered with a layer of affection, “but I swear, he’s a lot better than he used to be.”

Sollux shakes his head and takes a sip of beer. “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

“So the meeting was pretty much just a continuation of the ongoing battle between Kankri and Rufioh, right?” Aradia breaks in, bringing you back on topic. You’d been discussing last night’s meeting and what she’d missed, which apparently wasn’t much.

“You should’ve seen them, AA,” Sollux says. “Kankri even said ‘ _fuck_ ’. Mituna was ready to slam both of their heads into their table. Well, that or make them kiss and make up.” He makes a disgusted face.

“I think the apocalypse will come the day Kankri Vantas and Rufioh Nitram permanently agree on an issue,” Aradia chuckles, “no debating or hero worship involved. Maybe the group hasn’t done anything yet just because those two can’t come to a compromise.”

“Porrim should just take over,” you suggest after you swallow. “She’s always been sensible.”

Sollux pales while Aradia laughs. “Yeah, she definitely needs to step up, but _someone_ is afraid of her because she once threatened to cut his dick off.”

“Listen, I know that’s a common threat,” Sollux tries to defend himself, “but shit, when Porrim says something, she fucking _means_ it.”

There’s a brief interlude where you all eat and think. The stromboli is hot and you can tell it’s all synthetic, but it’s yummy all the same. “So what happens when Kankri and Rufioh _aren’t_ yelling at each other?”

“Well, there’s usually some planning,” Aradia says around a mouthful of spaghetti. “They want to do some kind of raid in the Burbs, I think, with posters or protesters or something. Wait,” she turns to Sollux, “was it peaceful protest first or vandalism?”

Snorting, Sollux responds, “It depends on who you ask.”

“Anyway, that should be happening kind of soon. Kankri’s been trying to get support for years now, since he first started university, and it’s about time something came of it.” Aradia swallows and grins excitedly. “I can’t wait to see what happens!”

Her hope is contagious, and soon you’re beaming with her. “I really want to be involved with everything, but I don’t know what I can do to help,” you say. “Do you know of anything they need?”

“Money,” Aradia says at the same time Sollux deadpans, “Common sense.”

You don’t have copious amounts of either. Before you can figure out what to say, Aradia states, “You don’t need to directly contribute to be a part of the group. You just need to be willing to go to stuff when they actually start up, so there are more people in the public eye. That’s the best contribution you can provide.”

 _I also have knowledge._ You don’t say this, though, because that would mean explaining _how_ you have it. Instead of responding, you take a sip of water. “So Sollux,” you change the subject, “you’re friends with Karkat, right? How’d you meet him?”

Sollux snorts, propping his chin on his hand. “We got into a fight on a forum one day, and he tried to hack me so I fried his hard drive. Now the majority of our friendship is made up of him getting boners for my computer skills.”

Aradia mouths, _biased_ , at you. It’s hard not to chuckle at that.

You finish your meals, and soon you’re trying to convince Aradia to come to the roof with you. “Come on, Aradia, I haven’t been to the top in months!”

“I don’t see why you love going up there so much,” she says, but follows you anyway. Sollux grumbles but shows no sign of leaving. “There isn’t that much to see. Plus, it’ll be all wet since it just rained.”

You start up the stairs undeterred. “The city is gorgeous from above, and you can see way out over the ocean!” Your tone goes mocking accusatory. “I thought you had a sense of adventure.”

“I’m coming, I’m _coming_!” she emphasizes from behind you. When she first took you up here, you were worried that she’d have trouble with the stairs because of her prosthetics, but she manages just fine. She’s in better shape then most people you know, seeing as she spends her time digging in ruins and dumps.

The roof is wet, as predicted, and the stink of mildew flows over you like a wave, but it’s worth it to see the sea from above. It looks less tropical than it usually does, as a result of both the rain and the season, but from way up here, it’s harder to tell that it’s full of pollution.

…Scratch that. You can see a dirty film coating a streak of water about a mile out. A fisherman must’ve spilled something.

Huffing, you turn around and head to the other side of the roof, opting instead to look at the city. You’re sure the view would be prettier at night, with all of the lights twinkling in the inky blackness, but the daytime is nice too because you can see _everything_ — the residential area on the other side of the city, the actual, _legal_ shopping district, the hulking justice building, and to the immediate north miles away, the Burbs.

When you say that the Burbs are “above” the Furthest Ring, it’s not just a metaphorical statement. That area of the city sits on a metal plateau half a mile high, accessed only by huge elevators with separate zones for passengers and commerce. Inside of the metal casing is where all of your food is grown or created, layer upon layer of artificial fields and labs that people would starve without. The walls surrounding Canaveral as a whole—which are barely visible from your high vantage point, an ominous stripe of gray on the horizon—are made of similar stuff, and many security and military personnel work within them.

The flamboyant stilts the Burbs rest on carry the weight of the city well. Since it’s smaller in area than the Furthest Ring, the buildings are designed to be high and slim, taller than the ones down here; at least the people who originally designed Canaveral realized that population and space allotted should be proportional. Even though you’re twelve stories up on this roof, the plateau rises much higher, so you can’t see over the edge. It’s just like the bucks wanted it.

“Have you had enough?” Aradia asks after a couple of silent minutes.

“Yeah,” you say.

You follow them down to Aradia’s floor, and then you say your goodbyes. “I’ll see you Sunday!” you grin.

“Don’t forget to make Eridan come get the trident,” Aradia reminds you. “Hopefully he won’t impale anyone with it on the way home.”

Sollux just nods his head at you before heading into Aradia’s store. “Bye!” the girl herself exclaims before following him and shutting the door behind her.

You spend the next few hours perusing the variety of stores, picking up all of the stuff on your list. You have to go to three separate ammunition dealers before you can find the right bullets for Eridan’s new pistol, and they’re more expensive than you thought they would be. You knock a thing or two off your personal list to accommodate, but you’re still able to get more hair dye and a chip with the past month’s newspapers from the Burbs.

Your last stop is the aforementioned lonely store on the second floor. It is located there so the shopkeeper could use the old kitchen, as the large freezer was something she needed, but she had to work hard to get it into shape, with all of the mold and water damage. Heading there is almost eerie, floorboards creaking under you and water dripping from odd spots in the ceiling. You’ve navigated this path many times before, though, since this pharmacy was the reason you found Derse in the first place: Eridan needed his medication, which you didn’t think he’d need a lot of seeing as your original game plan had you two down in the Furthest Ring for two months tops, and Serenity is only prescribed in the Burbs. It’s not that he’s dependent on it—he assures you constantly that it’s not addictive, and all of the research you went through seems to agree with him—it’s that he becomes… _different_ when he’s not on it.

You started losing your best friend when he was around eleven. In your head, you don’t hesitate to admit that he was always an entitled asshat. But he was never one to you, because he loved you, and you used to think that was _awesome_. His family was cold to him as yours was to you, because the adults believed that it taught respect but you know it only assured loneliness, so you were his hearth and he was your blanket and you were willing to spend every second of your life with him.

But then he started changing: he’d scream and break things and blame his mistakes on you, and you’d been there when he was younger so you saw his temper tantrums but they were nothing like this. Eridan was so bitter and caustic for a kid barely into the double digits; it was like the world had done him some gigantic wrong and somehow he wanted to get back at it. That’s when he started getting certain opinions about supremacy and wanted nothing more to impress Vriska Serket, and his parents didn’t want to put him on Serenity so young because they’d been well into their teens before the idea even came into their heads, but they decided he was overwhelming and they had no other choice.

It makes you feel awful to even think that you like him _better_ now, but who wouldn’t? He smiles more and actually _listens_ to you, taking more than just his own opinion into consideration before he acts, and instead of breaking things or people when he gets mad or frustrated, he cries. It’s much easier to console a teary boy than an enraged monster, so you’ll willingly make trips to Derse to get his medication so you’ll get to keep _this_ Eridan.

The other day he was making fun of you for knowing the pharmacist’s name, but she knows yours too. “Hello, Feferi,” she greets, smiling and putting a syringe in a rotating display at the corner of the counter. It seems she hasn’t gotten into her recreational drug cabinet today, because her eyes are clear and her voice is sharp. “Here for a refill?”

“Yep!” you tell Delrina, burrowing in your bag for the cylindrical bottle that holds the pills. She takes it, entering some data into the computer before heading into the back to do her thing. While you wait, you take out the newspaper card you picked up earlier and slide it into your tablet, and in moments you have every issue for the last month at your fingertips.

You’re browsing your mom’s stock fluctuations when Delrina comes back, container full of tiny white capsules. She hands it to you and you give her your credit card in turn. Small talk stays at safe topics like the storm that blew by today and the oncoming spring, and in minutes you’re heading back outside.

It’s sunny, the sky a never-ending blue that wouldn’t suggest that it had been pouring earlier. You decide to walk home, because maybe you’ll come across another one of those graffitied billboards. The mystery has really been prevalent in your thoughts ever since you saw the first one.

But you do not. You get home in the evening and Eridan is gone, but the kitchen has been restocked so you know he went and got the rations for the week. He’s probably doing a job now, so you make some dinner for yourself and watch a sitcom before you start combing through the newspapers again.

First you search for mentions of your mother: she’s everywhere, and it’s easy to sift the articles into piles of relevant and not. The only real information you can discern is that she’s still doing research for this project she wants to launch eventually. She’s been going on about it since before you left so you doubt she’s made any actual headway. Eridan’s father commented on a report about one of his senior Angels that dug up a scandal with an officer working with the Lord English surveillance program, which really isn’t anything new or special. People working in that company will always abuse it, and if they don’t bribe Seymour Ampora enough, he’ll send someone to uncover it.

Thinking about the claim you overheard at the meeting yesterday, you search for any mention of your sister. It seems that Meenah did open up her own practice, specializing in physical alterations. You’re pretty surprised she didn’t go into body mods, but your mother would’ve been angry, and Meenah wouldn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize her inheritance. She has a nice little place on the outskirts of the medical district, just as stark and uniform as the rest of the buildings around the office. You bet she hates it.

There’s no mention of Cronus anywhere, which isn’t surprising since there never has been in two plus years, but you always check for Eridan’s sake. This means he’s been stagnating ever since you left, because he should be done with his Angel training by now, but there would’ve been an announcement if he completed it. Last both of you heard, he was doing accounting for the cops most days and playing in bars most nights, but luckily neither of you have come across him.

You spend hours reading, as you are prone to do when left alone. By ten o’clock, you’re up to date on everything back home, and you only feel a little bit bitter. Sure, you prefer it down here most of the time because the Burbs smothered you and down here you’re _free_ , but some days you miss the food and your sister and the _knowledge_ that everyone up there is permitted.

Sighing, you take the tablet and grab a chair from the kitchen before heading into the bedroom and setting up shop next to the window. You watch the Belt shut down for the night and think that maybe, just _maybe_ , you’ll be ready to take a short trip back one day.

* * *

 

It takes weeks, but as you, Eridan, Sollux, and Aradia are leaving a meeting one late Sunday with a full moon to guide you, the propagandist strikes again.

This time, it’s just a little saying that you know you’ve heard before, but you can’t exactly recall where because it was so long ago. _The savior of the waking world,_ it reads, _cannot also protect the dreaming dead._ It feels like something from a fable or a nursery rhyme, but the gold of the utopia depicted on the top half of the billboard could be heaven and the bottom half, with its rich, deep purples and twisted figures could be hell. Once again, there’s a signature at the bottom right corner—a bright symbol amidst the black that the scene recedes into. After the four of you look at it for a while, Aradia voices that you should keep going. The store she wants to show you will be closed soon.

“Hold on,” you say, jogging over to the side of the building. You won’t let this opportunity pass you by; you _have_ to see what’s written in the corner, even if you have to scale the building.

It’s actually not that hard. Eridan stands below you as if he’d actually be able to catch you if you fell. You pull yourself from balcony to balcony across the face of the apartment complex, hoping that no one inside will take notice. You can see in Aradia and Sollux’s faces that they’re thinking of what happened to Tavros, but the situations are entirely different so you don’t know why they’d be worried. There’s no one there to push you.

You see what you need to see, and sadly, it’s utterly unsatisfying because it tells you _nothing_. Yeah, it’s a signature, but you guess you were taking them for a fool because it tells you nothing of their identity.

“What did it say, Fef?” Eridan asks when you hit the ground next to him and dust your hands on your pants. Aradia also looks interested, but Sollux looks at you like you’re some new kind of crazy and he doesn’t know if he likes it or not.

“I don’t really know how to describe it,” you say, but you try anyway. Later, when you’re back in your apartment, you draw it for Eridan, and he just shrugs and goes to bed.

But you stay awake for a while, searching through databases and finding nothing about some stupid emoticon in purple paint.

:o)


	5. V- 197 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed the holidays! Thank you to derseandprospitcollide for betaing!
> 
> Narrator: Eridan

One day, you’ll make Kankri Vantas understand you’re not his fucking errand boy, but it seems today is not that day. 

And he didn’t even have the gall to ask you to do him this favor in person, oh no. The poor soul is helping other degenerates at his silly little hospital job that doesn’t pay him nearly as much as it should, so he texted Rufioh and told him to tell you what to do when you got back from a job. It’d been a dud—the slimy bastard was nowhere to be found, so either someone calculated the probability wrong or the contractor was leading you astray purposely—which left you in a sullen mood even _before_ Rufioh cheerily told you that Kankri wanted you to pick something up for him. He needs it for the meeting tonight, and since the person you’re getting it from won’t be able to attend, they needed some way to transfer the package.

That’s how you, Eridan Ampora, a seasoned killer that was halfway to becoming an Angel before you threw it away and has more bad marks on his record than good, ended up running an errand ( _no charge!_ ) for a fucking thump. If you didn’t like Kar so much, you wonder how long you would’ve put up with his insufferable older brother.

 _Cascade: Billiards and Bar_ isn’t just in Felt territory; it’s Felt _headquarters_ , and since your run-in with Doc Scratch a month or so ago, you’re understandably wary around the gang. Plus, you murdered two of their guys, so they probably aren’t exactly happy with you. Chances are they don’t know who did it and Doc Scratch never even saw you, but can you blame a guy for being a bit paranoid?

It’s evening when you get off the bus on the eastern side of Canaveral and walk the few blocks to the bar, hands shoved deep in your pockets and shoulders drooping. You’ve mastered that particular posture in the past couple of years; sure, at first you looked seedy and suspicious, but now you’ve managed to turn it inconspicuous, which is what you need. The square shoulders, chin up, disdainful glare in place thing you emulated in your childhood wouldn’t exactly work down here, especially when you’re masquerading at being low. No one notices you when you present yourself in a meek manner, so you’ve added that to your repertoire of disguises.

Despite it being early to drink, _Cascade_ isn’t short on patrons. You get yourself a booth near the back, with a good enough view where you’ll be able to see your target walk in but deep enough in penumbra that no one will really notice you unless they care to look. The dim lighting obscures you even more, as the entire room is lit with what you believe to be black light, besides some neon signage behind the bar.

Waiters and waitresses flit by on roller skates, metal trays carefully balanced on their palms. Their attire is very classic, with the girls in corsets and guys in suspenders and bowties; almost everyone has a bowler hat, and you think it looks fucking ridiculous. The place itself is very green, just as you’d expect from a Felt dive, and it only gets greener the deeper you go. At the very back, instead of pleasure rooms like there are at Midnight Runners, there’s a grand staircase that leads to the billiard lounges. You doubt you’ll ever use them, this visit or any other time. You’re a chess kind of guy.

You fuck around on your tablet for a few minutes before someone slips into the booth across from you. “Hello!” she greets cheerily, extending a hand (is that a _doily_ around her wrist? Some thumps are fucking weird…) across the table. You shake it once firmly as she continues, “You’re the kid Kankri sent, right? Eridan?”

“Yeah,” you say shortly. You don’t like being called “kid”.

“I’m Meulin,” and through her layer of exuberance, there’s some sort of dreamy quality to her tone that a bit unnerving. “I believe you work with my sister?”

“Nepeta Leijon, yeah,” you affirm, fingers drumming on the table. “Look, it’s nice to meet you and all—especially since Kankri never shuts up about you—but I’d sort of like to get home.”

Her nose wrinkles as she starts digging around in her purse. “You should at least have a drink first.” She says _first_ with some sort of weird accent. You wonder if it’s a speech impediment or what.

Raising your eyebrows, you inquire, “Are you inviting me?”

Meulin’s face doesn’t change, but something in the air shifts to tell you that she didn’t approve. “I’m meeting someone else in a little while,” she reveals.

“What a shame,” you drawl even though you really don’t care, and she pulls out a little chip and places it on the table between you.

“Don’t lose it,” she commands as you take it. As you hold it between two fingers, you think it _would_ be pretty easy to lose, since it’s the size of your thumbnail and paper thin, but you’ll keep track of it. “It’s kind of important.”

She moves as if she’s going to leave already, but you stop her with your words. “Hold on, aren’t you going to explain to me what this is?”

The woman squints at you as if she’s looking at someone especially slow and then points a finger at the chip. Her nails have been manicured in such a way that they look like claws. “That’s something called a data chip, and there’s information on it.” She’s condescending, but it’s said in such a way that you think she believes she’s actually being helpful.

“Yeah, I get that,” you snap, irked. “But what _kind_ of information?”

“Schematics,” Meulin answers, breaking eye contact as she slides out of the booth. Any life that was in her voice is gone, as if depleted by her last sentence, replaced by a thin monotone that doesn’t settle quite right in your stomach. From how quickly the shift occurred, you wonder if she’s ever spent any time in the Burbs. “If you want to know more, ask Kankri. It was nice meeting you.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone. Sighing, you drag yourself away and move up to the actual _bar_. She’s right, there’s no way you could leave without getting yourself a decent drink first. Your day has been too long and you’ve been working too hard.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” you order, and the Japanese woman on skates flits away to put it together herself. The barmaid is quick, and the drink slides in front of you within the minute. You nod in thanks, and take a large swig, trying not to cough as the alcohol burns your throat. After that one big gulp, you take smaller sips, shoulders hunched and posture tense as you try not to be noticed. Despite the fact that Meulin gave you a weird feeling, you sort of wish she hadn’t left; at least you would’ve had company.

As you down the last of your drink a few minutes later, someone settles in next to you. He’s fucking _tall_ , taller than anyone you’ve ever met in the Furthest Ring, with wild blond hair arranged like he just stuck his head in a wind tunnel and loose clothing that he probably pulled out of a dumpster someplace. Hair color notwithstanding, this guy couldn’t be past level six, especially since the slump of his shoulders showed he lacked the pride and poise bucks pound into them since day one.

“If I could get a tall glass of absinthe, that would just make my day,” he says to the barmaid, and he sounds drunk already with his slow words and rough voice. “And I’ll also buy my brother over here another of… well, whatever the motherfuck he’s enriching his mind with tonight.”

You didn’t see anyone come in the bar with him, so you’re confused for a moment before he turns to you, revealing his face for the first time. “Now what’s that you’re drinking?” he inquires.

There’s a delay between his question and your answer, because you have to stop your mouth from falling open. His eyes are surrounded by black makeup, enhancing his dark blue eyes to turn them into pits, and a slash of dark purple lipstick turns his mouth into a slim bruise.  A million things fly through your mind, the prominent ones being _highblood_ and _he’s going to recognize me oh god_.  You hadn’t seen him in years, not since you were ten and he was dressed in fine white robes for a New Years ceremony up in the Burbs and you’d mocked him for his makeup, still stuttering your w’s and v’s and he said something about your father’s Angels being blasphemy. You broke his nose, he kneed you in the balls, and then the two of you dissolved into a squall on the floor until some of the staff came by and dragged you apart.

“A gin and tonic,” you hear yourself say to Gamzee Makara, and his purple coated lips split to show his teeth in a grin so much like the one he gave you those few years ago that you’re _positive_ he knows exactly who you are, and you wonder if you’re going to have to kill him.

“That’s one masterful concoction,” he responds, clapping you on the shoulder. Even though he’s thin and lanky, you can feel the strength coiled in that arm. “Now me, I’ve got to have my absinthe; it _glows_ , motherfucker, like the sun coming through a stained glass window of a valley on glorious Sunday. I’d be just gleeful to buy you one of those, if you’d like to give it a try.”

As he finishes his sentence, the beverage is slammed down in front of him, as is your refill. You thought he was exaggerating with his description, but to your disbelief the neon drink _is_ glowing slightly, fitting in perfectly with the rest of the green in the establishment. He chugs the entire thing without taking a breath, and it seems that he’s a regular because the barmaid already has another drink ready for him. Gamzee takes a sip and swishes it around in his mouth before swallowing. “Anyway,” he goes on, thankfully not pressuring you to taste, “you look a tad bit familiar to me. You come to this place often? Me, I’m here almost every day.”

Somehow, you find your voice. “I’ve come in once or twice.” It’s a lie, but it would explain why he might recognize you. You swirl your drink into a miniature whirlpool instead of drinking it.

The next time he speaks, his voice is low, and he leans over to your ear as if he doesn’t want to be heard. A shiver passes over you. “You seem a little nervous. Are you with the Midnight Crew? That’s just wonderful, I may be closer to the Felt but I’m not in it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Too busy with God to run with a gang, you get me?”

“I-I’m not Crew,” you manage to get out. You gulp once to clear your throat, a bit more comfortable because it seems that he doesn’t know who you are after all. “I just don’t… come to the east side very often. I stay mostly in the south and west.”

The west is technically MC territory, but they’re a very small group that somehow gained a lot of power and plenty of people over there have no associations with them, yourself included. “I’d never run with a gang.” If you weren’t about to throw up, your lip would be curling in disgust. You hate the entire criminal business.

Gamzee shrugs and takes another gulp of his drink. “Anyway, enough of that,” he proclaims indifferently. “My name’s Gamzee, Gamzee Makara. And yours, brother?”

You almost spurt out _“Eridan Ampora”_ like an ignoramus, but catch yourself just in time. Deciding against using your “middle name”, you tell him, “Callon Actium.” You make sure to look him in the eye when you say this to look for any kind of reaction, to detect any sort of surprise or suspicion, but he seems just as chuffed as ever, so maybe he _doesn’t_ recognize you after all. Your appearance _has_ changed a lot since you were a kid still hiding behind Fef and your last name.

“Callon Actium,” he repeats, smile becoming a bit less prominent is if his face was getting tired of holding the gargantuan grin. “Now doesn’t that just roll right off the tongue.”

He won’t stop staring at you, and despite how unnerving it is you don’t sense any kind of real threat.  You take another small sip of your drink.

Gamzee tries to engage you in conversation a few more times, and soon you’ve relaxed without letting your guard down. The chat is idle and you come to the conclusion that he is still fucking weird. Not soon enough, the check comes and you watch the kid sign with his own purple pen. The tail on the last A of is surname is long, and he puts a circle and two dots above it, making a :o).

You recognize it almost immediately, and your eyebrows spike to your hairline. He notices and smirks at you like you’re now part of a shared secret. “It sure was nice to meet you. Come back if you want another round of drinks; I usually show up at around this time. You have a fine night now.”

“Bye,” you say as he lifts himself out of the stool, stretches his limbs, and lopes towards the door. Your own tab for your first drink arrives and you dig around in your pocket for your wallet. You pull out a piece of crinkled paper and a small rag for polishing your glasses before you can find the leather fold that contains your bills. You pay and shove everything back into your pocket, except for the paper; something about it caught your eye. Since you came across it a month ago, you’d used it for scratch paper, and there are a few notes and equations written in pencil. But also there’s something else there now, and you don’t really see what until you unfold it.

 _Oh_ , you realize as you look at it, _it’s the black light this place uses_. It made the ink visible, and it seems that your piece of paper was never really blank. Three words take up the entire page, stretching from the top margin to the very bottom.

 

HELLO,

MISTER

AMPORA

* * *

 

When you make it back to the apartment, you’ve got about an hour before you need to go to Midnight Runners for the weekly meetings. You and Fef haven’t missed one since the assembly back in February; you think that’s a pretty good attendance record, since it’s mid-April now. Kankri and Rufioh still fight, but there’s been planning as well, and Fef is getting antsy for action along with the rest of them.

Speaking of Fef, she’s in the shower when you arrive, so you sit in the living room and watch some news to get your mind off the note. You tore it up and chucked it in the waste bin before leaving Cascade, but the words still haunt you. Someone planted that paper in your pocket over a month ago, and it took you until now to notice. You’re really getting lax.

Doc Scratch is the culprit; that much is obvious to you. Who else would it be? The omnichip he had implanted in his brain gives him access to the entire network of names and faces, and if he ever saw someone he thought he could use, he’d find a way.

But you don’t understand what he’d ever want from you, seeing as he almost always goes after girls. Maybe he’s just curious—you _are_ an Ampora in the Furthest Ring, after all—but you don’t think he’d reveal himself if that’s all. Chances are he wants to go through you and get to someone else.

The number one candidate for that “someone else” position chooses this moment to pad into the living room, hair wet and comb in hand. She’s already clothed in a neat pink dress that helps her attain a higher bust level than she actually has, and the material is thin enough that it’s ripped into layers in the skirt, the fuchsia interspersed with light blue and green. “Could you braid my hair?” she asks, sitting down and putting her back to you.

“Yeah,” you say, accepting the comb from her extended hand. You brush her hair back, careful not to tug too hard on the tangles, and get to work. It takes a while, but eventually her hair is neatly arranged into a long plait that extends to her waist. As she puts finishing touches on her makeup, you make sure your hair is in order, and soon you’re both heading out into the night.

For once, Kankri pays more attention to you than just the nod you usually get when you enter. “Did you get the chip from Meulin?”

“I did,” you respond, taking it out and holding it up between your thumb and index finger. Kankri walks over and reaches for it, but you move your hand away. “I’m not your fucking errand boy.”

He gives you a look like the thought never crossed his mind. “No, of course not. I asked you for a favor, and you’re my friend so you did it. Now give me the chip.”

“What’s on it?” you ask, still playing keep away. Since he admitted to you doing him a favor, common courtesy demands that _he_ now owes _you_ a favor.

Sighing, he says, “It’s just some stuff for Sollux and Mituna.”

You blanch. “So I just did _them_ a favor?” you question incredulously.

Kankri takes this opportunity to reach over and swipe the data chip. “Indeed you did,” he confirms. “I knew you wouldn’t do it if I told you who it was really for, so I withheld the information until the task was complete. It’s simple strategy, Eridan.”

 _And they say thumps can’t be clever,_ you seethe.

Brooding, you go over to your end of the table and plop into the seat next to Fef. She’s currently chatting with Ara about something, so you engage Karkat. “You’re lucky I’m a decent guy or else our friendship would be over.”

Kar rolls his eyes. “I’m so sorry that my brother did something so despicable as asking for a fucking favor,” he says sardonically. “He should know by now that you are not under the codes of general decency and have no business doing something as menial and demeaning as a fetch run. Shall I have him lick the soles of your boots as penance?”

Scowling, you consider getting another drink. It’s been a while since you were at Cascade and you’re not feeling too tipsy, but you’d rather err on the side of caution instead of have one too many and blurt out something undesirable. “Whatever,” you mutter, propping your chin up with your hand. On the other side of the table, you watch Kankri go up to Mituna and hand him the chip. They chat, and at one point both of them glance over at you, so you raise your middle finger halfheartedly and they go back to their conversation.

“Eridan,” someone says from behind you, and you turn around to see Rufioh, hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed. “You got a sec?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, getting up and letting him lead you into a corner of people that you’ve figured out are _his_ rather than Kankri’s. “Listen, I already told you that I’m not taking sides between you two. Sure, you’re a pal from work, but Kankri gives me free food on Sunday mornings—”

“I didn’t say anything about choosing a saint,” Rufioh interrupts with a shrug. “You _can_ hear both of our arguments, though. I think that’s an important part of your not-choosing-sides thing.”

When you walk up, Aradia’s sister looks you up and down before saying something you don’t understand. You quirk an eyebrow, but before you can respond Rufioh mutters, “ _Damara_ ,” in a warning tone. She just unleashes a feral grin and takes a drag of her joint.

Others in the group include both Zahhaks and the youngest Leijon, plus some others that you haven’t bothered to learn the names of. They don’t look at Rufioh like people look at Kankri; while the latter is often gazed upon with something akin to reverence, the former barely gets a look of respect. Somehow, there’s something more _equal_ about this group, even though Kankri is all about equality. “Tonight,” Rufioh begins, “we are going to push Kankri for action. _Not_ just me, but all of us. He’s been running this show for too long, so we’re just _languishing_ , not moving forward or taking the stand he’s been promising. He needs to see that it’s what is in the majority.

“You all know I’m in this not just for the wellbeing of us all, but also for a bit of revenge. I want _them_ ,” he makes a vague hand gesture towards the direction of the Burbs, “to see that we are a force to be reckoned with, and not fucking cattle. We are bulls that are more than willing to stampede—” He breaks off, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry about the shitty metaphor, but my point still stands. We… we need to show them that we’re not content to be treated like property anymore, and Kankri is keeping us from doing that, so tonight, we give him an ultimatum: shut your mouth and do something, or we’ll take it into our own hands. Does that sound alright to everyone?”

No one disagrees. You really don’t think this is going to work, because Ruf has pulled this shit before and it only causes the meetings to dissolve into a Vantas v. Nitram battleground that sets no precedents, but honestly there’s nothing you can do except maybe create your _own_ side. That doesn’t really help with the “laying low” thing you are always shooting for; however, you’re _sure_ you’d do a better job running this freak show than either of these thumps. This thing has been in the works for years, and if you’d had all of this support for so long, you would have conquered the entire city by now—probably Houston and Pasadena, too. You’ve always had a mind for strategy.

As you get lost in thoughts of power, Rufioh says something else you don’t quite catch, and then the meeting is starting. The man looks at you expectantly, like he wants you to comment or pledge your allegiance to him, but you disappoint him by shrugging and returning to your table.

Kankri goes over ration trends and crop output and population stats, and your eyes glaze over for most of it. When you’re not zoned out, you watch Fef, because _she’s_ certainly enamored with whatever the fuck Kankri is talking about. Every few words, she displays some sort of reaction: her eyebrows draw together when he says something sad, her lips part when he says something “inspiring”, her fingers tap the table if he’s on a particularly tedious topic.

At one point, a voice you haven’t heard here before comments on his manufacturing rant, and the slightly familiar tone of it draws your attention from Fef. Up front, a young woman is going off on a long tangent, words spilling from her lips faster than you’ve heard anyone speak in a long time. It takes you a second, but with an _oh shit_ , you realize the speaker is Aranea Serket.

You nudge Fef with your knee under the table and she turns to look at you, comprehension alight in her eyes. Aranea would never recognize you like this since you’ve only spoken to her a couple of times, but Fef she’s more familiar with. Sure, she looks a lot different with dark hair and eyes and a lot of freckles, but if Fef spoke, her voice would certainly be recognized.

When you break eye contact with Fef, you two have made a silent agreement not to speak or doing anything to stand out; it looks like neither of you will be supporting Rufioh tonight, if it comes to testimonials.

Overall, it’s a short meeting. Half an hour later, he’s getting ready to say his closing when Rufioh stands up. “Listen, Kankri,” he starts, “I’ve been talking to some people and we all agree that you’re stalling too much, and we won’t stand for it any longer. You have been gathering people here for over two years, and what have you done except run your mouth and make empty promises as the world continues to get worse? If you won’t put down _concrete_ plans, right now, at this moment, we’ll… have to go somewhere else.”

Kankri is silent. His mouth has popped open a bit—not a full on jaw drop, but enough to show indignation—and his eyes are blazing. “Are you threatening to break off from the rest of the group?” he demands.

Rufioh doesn’t really know how to control his expression, so you see a sliver of fear make its way onto his face. “Well we wouldn’t _want_ to, but if you won’t make any clear progress, I don’t think, you’d have a choice but to… let us go.”

Seemingly unsure of what to do, Kankri takes a large breath to steady himself. “Since this is a democracy, we’ll take a vote right now, but I feel like you may be surprised with the results.” Raising his voice further, he says, “Please stand if you are unhappy about the how this group is being run, and if you’d like to take immediate action.”

After a few seconds, you almost want to laugh, because Rufioh has more supporters than either of them thought he did, and the expression of incredulous embarrassment on Ruf’s face is something you’re totally going to make fun of him for at work tomorrow. A lot of people have stood up: about half of the spectators, and even some of Kankri’s inner circle are among the advocates for action. Aranea blushes and straightens her dress as she stands; Karkat stares at his brother and scowls, feet spread apart and shoulders defiant; Porrim looks as if she wants to join them, but stays solidly sitting as she stares guiltily at the ground.

And then Fef is standing as well, and what can you do but follow her? As chatter erupts throughout the room and Rufioh starts to develop a self-satisfied smile, the proponent for further action calls out, “Quiet guys, we’re still trying to figure this out!”

Even though his voice spreads over everyone in the vicinity, no one halts. The hint of smugness in his smile begins to fade, and then Kankri clears his throat and snaps, “ _Listen_!”

Silence greets him, all conversation dying away instantaneously. Rufioh may have won more support than expected, but Kankri still rules. “You want _action_?” Kankri says. “Then fine, you’ll get it, but it will not be violent and it will be designed to make an impact that will not bring attention to us as a group, all right?”

Blinking hard, Rufioh turns to look at him instead of the crowd. “ _What_?”

That’s certainly the question on everyone’s mind right now. It’s not normal for Kankri to decide something like that, especially when it sounds like he’s _yielding_ but there has to be something you don’t know about the situation. You exchange a look with Fef, and her expression contains much more excitement than yours does. She’s always been the one who wants to get involved in things, and while you love a good spotlight, you’ve learned how to choose your battles.

Kankri straightens his back, leveling Rufioh with his glare. “You heard me. Porrim had an idea for something that wasn’t crazy, and perhaps it’ll be good to act on it.” He adds, “Don’t think you’ve won anything. We were planning to do this anyway, your prodding or not.”

“When?” Rufioh asks, still stuck on basic questions.

Pursing his lips, Kankri takes a moment to think. “Reasonably soon, but remember, we need to plan. Porrim, tell him what you told me a few days ago.”

From where she’s sitting back by Latula Pyrope, Porrim gets up, looking bewildered. “Well,” she starts as she walks over to the two bickering men, “we have an informant that could link the Captors into the network to get ahold of security just long enough for us to get up into the Burbs. I thought that maybe we could spread some printed stuff around—shit that can’t be censored—about conditions down here and things they haven’t been told. It might be enough to get them to question things before our group comes out from the underground.”

“So I’m guessing that there’ll be no vandalism?” Rufioh inquires.

Porrim shakes her head.

“Damn,” he huffs.

“But the security for the elevators is the best they have,” you voice, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to blankface with all of these eyes on you. “It’s not going to be taken down easily, someone on the inside or not.”

“He’s not on the inside, necessarily,” Porrim corrects. “Just someone with access to the kind of technology we’d need to pull this off. And we’re not breaking their entire system; we’re just going to trick it into a mode where everything will still be on, but it won’t be able to detect anything.”

You really shouldn’t be speaking about this, but coming from the family you do with the knowledge you have, you can’t let them try anything this stupid. Or at least, not without optimum intel. “I know a thing or two about security,” you hear yourself say. “Put me on the team and I swear you won’t be detected.”

“We wouldn’t be caught anyway,” Sollux’s brother snaps. “Captors are the fucking _best_. We could take down the entire system before any of those douchebags up top noticed, and there wouldn’t be anything they could do about it.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Then why haven’t you? As you seem so eager to do so.”

“Stop it, you two,” Kankri says tiredly. “Yeah, Eridan, you can work with us on this if you think you can contribute. Do think you’ll be better on the ground with Mituna and Sollux, or with the rest of us up in the Burbs? I’m sure we’d do better with someone there with us that knows what they’re doing.”

It makes your head hurt that he just trusts you and your knowledge without even checking to see if your full of shit; it’s certainly not a thing you’d ever do. “I’d really rather not spend any more time than I have to with those two morons.”

“Good, you’re sparing my IQ,” Sollux quips, and you’re about to make a sharp retort when Feferi cuts in with something you thought you’d never hear.

“I want to go up with you guys,” she states. “I think I can help.”

“Fef…” you say softly because if anything, _you’d_ be the only one who ever wanted to set foot back up there, especially when you think about how much she despised the place. She pretends not to hear you.

And that’s when you remember Aranea.

You lock eyes with the young woman for the slightest moment, just as she’s turning away. Her expression reveals nothing except curiosity, and it scares you that you can’t see whether or not she _knows_. Even if she did figure it all out, you honestly don’t know whether she’d tell anyone or keep it to herself. The result probably hinges on whether or not she’s still dating Fef’s sister.

“Okay,” Kankri affirms Fef’s involvement, “but we have to keep the party small. We can’t risk any sort of detection.”

“How do we know that this ‘small party’ will do its job?” a man a table away inquires. You recognize him from previous meetings; you think his name is Wayland. “If there are only a few of you, then we all know that it’s going to be people that _you_ like and _you_ trust, without giving heed to the rest of us in this damn group.”

“Something that will involve all of us is coming,” Kankri says firmly. “I swear to you, there will be a protest before summer comes, but we need to do something like this first so we can get the civilians above to _question_.”

A woman near the back (Penelope, perhaps?) scoffs, “Oh, like they’d ever pay any attention to _us—_ ”

“Actually,” Aranea interrupts with a smile that seems a bit too saccharine to be genuine, “I’m sure that there will a positive reaction by the regulars up there. Not everyone in the Burbs is Glenda Peixes. There are many that would be sympathetic to your plight if they just understood what the conditions were like down here. Any revulsion they have towards you has been conditioned, and just like any kind of teaching, things can be redone. This is just a step to begin educating the masses of the Burbs.”

You blink at the word wall. From what you heard from Meenah, Aranea was always quite the chatterbox, but you thought maybe she outgrew it since she hadn’t been interrupting Kankri at every conceivable point to interject her own information. It seems like you got the wrong impression.

“It’s just going to get covered up, just like the billboards and everything else,” Wayland points out. “When don’t they censor anything that might undermine their authority or challenge them to actually _think_?”

Kankri gathers his thoughts, but before he can string a sentence together, Porrim explains, “We’re very aware of that, but we think that if we do it in bulk, there’s no way everyone’s going to miss it. Bucks are gossipers; we just want to give them something to talk about before our first protest. We’ll scatter fliers that will be taken up by the wind, maybe even tape some to buildings so they’ll be where people can see them, but have so many that not even the police can find them all to take down in just a few hours.”

“What sort of things will be on the fliers?” Fef inquires.

“Statistics,” Porrim replies. “Intellectual bits, things that will get their attention because it’s not meant to prey on their emotional side, which is stifled up in the Burbs. We have some solid stuff.” She pulls out her phone and brings up a document to begin listing off numbers. “24% of deaths in the Furthest Ring can be tied to starvation, and 11% to police brutality. 76% of arrests take place with a bill of attainder and 52% lack habeas corpus, so most people don’t know what they’re getting accused of and there’s no trial. It’s all stuff that’ll hopefully make the bucks think, ‘huh, that’s illogical’.”

It’s a decent approach; that idea is certainly better than trying to get the bucks to have some sort of emotional reaction, which would be much harder to do. You wonder if they’ll let you and Fef look over the rough draft—you two would be the best consultants out there—but since they don’t know how ingrained in their culture you were, you doubt they’ll seek you out.

There’s discontented murmuring throughout the bar, but Kankri looks as firm as ever. “So it’s settled,” he says. “We’ll do this sometime before next Sunday so we’ll have the results for you at that time, and then we’ll begin setting down solid plans for our first open protest, depending on the initial reception of our act.” His eyes sweep over the entire area, as if he’s trying to make sure he sees everyone. “Next week, we’ll meet elsewhere, because I want _everyone_ who wants to be involved to come. Does anyone know of a place that will hold all of us?”

Aradia speaks up, “I think there’s room in the ballroom of Derse. I can see what I can do to reserve it for us.”

“Thank you, Aradia,” Kankri says, and now that you know of their connection, you understand the fondness in his gaze. “If that’s all, then the meeting is adjourned, and hopefully everyone is placated with this ‘action’.” Shooting a glare at Rufioh, he jumps off the chair he was standing on and heads toward the back door, not waiting for any of his roommates.

“Well he’s going to be in a sour mood for the rest of the night,” Porrim comments as she gathers her things and the general listeners break off into groups to leave or get drinks.

Fef stares after him long after he’s out of sight, and doesn’t snap out of her daze until you prod her arm. “Ready to go?” you inquire.

“Yeah,” she says with a smile that seems uncertain. It makes you think that she’s answering a different question than the one you asked. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

* * *

 

“Do you think we’ll see anyone we know? In the Burbs?”

Fef rarely speaks when you’re trying to go to sleep because that would seem too much like pillowtalk, and that word implies sex that you are not having, sadly. When she _does_ talk, however, you know the conversation is going to be heavy. Going home, even for an hour in the middle of the night, weaves a strange tangle of feelings. “We’ll be up there in the middle of the night,” you murmur. “I doubt we’re going to recognize anything but the landscape.”

“They could see us on cameras,” Fef says. You hear the sheets on her side rustle as she sits up. “Our faces would be recognized in seconds.”

“I’m sure Kankri will get his hands on something that’ll block our faces from the cameras, or else they wouldn’t be taking this risk,” you reason. It’s weird, being pragmatic. “Maybe he got his hands on scrambler suits somehow. They’d certainly jam the signals, and Sol or Mit could make it so the interruption isn’t detected immediately.”

“Too expensive,” Feferi disputes.

“Aranea could buy them.”

Sighing, she pulls her knees up to her chest. “Aren’t you worried at _all_?”

Surprisingly, you’re really not. The only thing you really have to be worried about is being tempted back in, but you’re sure Fef will be able to shield you from all that. You’re still making up your list of reasons why Fef was so adamant about leaving the Burbs in the first place, and right now you think it’s proportioned: 10% to prove you wrong, 30% to save you from yourself, 30% to escape pressure, and 30% something else. Some days, you think that final bit is that she’s running from something. Responsibility? The law? She’s never told you.

“Fef,” you say, “it’s not that big of a deal. We’ll go, come back, and nothing will have changed. We won’t get swarmed by Angels or spotted by Lord English, our parents won’t try to corner us; hell, no one will even know we were ever there. We’ll still be their lost kids that they have everyone else convinced they shipped to Pasadena for ‘studies’. It’ll be fine. Okay?”

She’s quiet for a long while, and you think that maybe she’s fallen asleep sitting up. Then she slides back under the covers, and you hear her getting comfortable. “Just… stay close to me,” she says and it sounds almost like a command. It seems absurd that she could ever protect you from anything, but as long as it’s mutual, you can’t really complain. Even though you’ve never needed anyone to look after you, sometimes it’s nice to know that someone has your back. “Goodnight, Eridan.”

“'Night, Fef.”

She’s keeping back more than she’s saying, you know that much. Since there are days down here where you have to avoid Cronus (his position dictates that he’s placed in the Furthest Ring two days a week to supervise), you’re almost used to the sense of uncertainty surrounding being detected. It’s either testament to your cunning or Cronus’s laziness that he hasn’t come across you yet, and you like to think it’s the former. But Fef isn’t used to the near constant fear of being found, so she won’t be at the top of her game when you’re in the Burbs.

Maybe it’ll affect you too. In your more arrogant moments you believe you’re too _over_ everything you experienced up there to be affected by the damn place, but seeing as there’s still some brainwashing left in you, you’ll have to be careful.

You’ll talk to Rufioh tomorrow about what this means for any plans he might have. Together, you and Fef should head upstairs to talk to Kankri. Hopefully he’ll be in a better mood, since you certainly don’t want a door slammed in your face when you ask to be a part of his planning. It really will be hard to get past all of the security checkpoints undetected, but if you know everything about what Kankri and the others plan to do, you’re sure you can help them out, seeing as your father was ( _is_ ) the head of security and you planned to follow in his footsteps.

Thinking about the path you could have taken—becoming an Angel, getting involved with security, learning your father’s position—fit you well then, and it still does now, but Fef needs you more than anyone up there does. Sure, some days you miss your mother fiercely and others you yearn for the times where you and Vriska Serket ruled the others of your age group with an iron fist, but those days are over. You have your own life now, and others never forced it upon you.

So you’ll go back to the Burbs, and then you’ll come home and go to sleep in this very bed. You have to believe that, or else you’d never return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The giant gap before the first break isn't blank.


	6. VI- 192 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up kiddos, this chapter an important one. Hell, _all of them_ will be from here until the end of the act. (If anyone's keeping track, there are four more after this, and they're all written but stuck in the first draft stage; I _promise_ , you don't want them in they're current state.) We're exiting the realm of development and running full speed into plot.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my beta derseandprospitcollide!
> 
> Narrator: Feferi

The Maryam-Vantas apartment contains nothing short of pure entropy.

Earlier, stomping from above your bedroom had woken you, so you trudged into the shower and when you came back into the bedroom, Eridan was shouting at the ceiling to shut up. All throughout breakfast, you could hear the plodding above you, as if the noise had followed you, and Eridan was particularly irritated when some ceiling dust rained down and fell into his coffee. That’s how you ended up going one floor topside—Eridan to give them a piece of his mind and you wanting to lend your assistance—and the second you knock, Karkat yanks the door open.

“Run,” he tells you gravely. “Run as fast as you fucking can, and for the love of God take me with you.”

“Karkat, who’s at the door?” Porrim calls as she approaches, grabbing the back of his shirt when she’s within range as if he sensed his plan to bolt at the first opportunity. “Ah, hey guys. Come on in.”

“No, Porrim, this is our opportunity,” Karkat urges as he’s dragged away from the threshold. He looks like he’s ready to summon some malevolent beastie from the deeps just to get him out of the apartment, and you want front row seats. “Let’s just leave! He won’t even notice, seeing as he’s up to his dick in,” his voice shifts into a deeper, slightly less nasal mimicry of his older brother’s haughty tone, “ _nonviolent protest_.”

“Are you mocking me?” Kankri questions from the living room as you come down the hall. “Because if you are, you can practice your impression of me while sorting through the list of businesses and seeing when they close.”

Karkat snarls but takes the tablet being held out without protest before trudging over to the couch and plopping down next to an upside down Mituna Captor. His mutters about nasty older brothers and bodily harm are almost quiet enough to be indistinguishable, but not quite.

To say that the apartment is in a state of disarray would be a humungous understatement. You can see piles of dishes sticking up over the lip of the bar; papers are scattered all over the floor near the coffee table, as if contrasting the neat stacks placed on the wooden surface; piles of clothes are heaped in one corner of the room near the old television; there’s a network of computers set up near Mituna’s head, radiating heat and displaying lines of code that you don’t understand. The source of the stomping is Kankri himself, as he’s pacing heavily throughout the room while typing away on a tablet.

“Porrim, do you have all of the fliers and pamphlets?” he asks without looking up.

Rolling her eyes, she gestures to the stacks of paper on the table right next to him. “Kankri, you have been pacing in front of them the entire time!”

“It doesn’t hurt to double check,” he defends, nose in the air and arms crossed over his chest. “Wouldn’t we look foolish if we just waltzed up there and realized we did not have any of the pieces required to sway certain people to our side? Anyway, did you manage to have them printed in full color? Were they fact checked and combed through for accuracy?”

“Everything was confirmed and the colors are eye catching,” she reports, picking one up to show him. The pile itself is colorful, with each message printed on a page of a different shade. You nab a purple one from the pile yourself to look over.

HOW MUCH DO YOU REALLY KNOW, it reads, ABOUT WHAT GOES ON BELOW? In a list of bullet points below the header, there are little facts like, _There are currently 121 people being held with bills of attainder for crimes that can never be proved_ , and, _Despite having the most prosperous agricultural center of the New Cities, starvation is the leading cause of death in Canaveral_. Plenty of little percentages litter the page as well. The flier will certainly get the message across, but you don’t know if they’re enough to get people to _care_.

“So you told me that we’d be meeting someone up there that could get us out of the transportation depot,” Eridan says. “Mit and Sol can fuck with the servers long enough to give us a blind spot, but you never clarified how we’re going to keep the cameras off us once we’re up there.”

“We have the scrambler gear over here—masks and gloves only, so we’ll need to be well covered in other areas, so I’d say turtlenecks, long pants, and boots will get the job done, even though we may sweat. Aranea kindly provided them.”

The older Captor snorts and rolls over so his chin is on the floor. “Of course _you’d_ want us to put on itchy sweaters, you fuckwit—”

“Anything I choose to put onto my body is none of your business, Mituna. Anyway, you only need to wear gloves to access the interface so it’s not like _you_ need to hide _your_ body from the public eye—”

Mituna pulls himself up fast and throws an arm around Kanrki’s neck, trying to tackle him to the ground, but the latter young man squirms and hisses as his friend laughs, “Tone it the fuck down, dude, you’ve been pissing your pants about this ever since the meeting!”

“Have _you_ ever had to plan a covert operation that could have us arrested and executed for sneaking into a restricted center of the city and throwing propaganda around in less than a week? Because if you have, I’d love to hear pieces of your sagacious wisdom and enlightenment!”

“All I want is for you to pull out the shark that somehow worked its way into your holy ass—"

“Boys,” Porrim sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Shut up.”

Seeing as Kankri seems rather absorbed in looking through the fliers, you approach Porrim. “Is there anything we can do to help?” you inquire.

“Honestly, amidst the chaos, it’s all coming together rather well,” Porrim admits. “Someone who’s on the Security Council is meeting us at the top, so as long as no one gets wind of it, we should be safe once we’re up there. The pedestrian elevators are deserted at night, since they rely so much on their cameras, which makes me think getting up there won’t be too much of a trial. Just as long as they don’t catch on to what we’re doing while we’re doing it, we should be in the clear. If you stay, you’ll probably just get in the way of Kankri’s rampaging.”

“Oh,” you say, a bit disappointed, “okay. I guess we’ll go then.”

“Make sure you’re well rested,” Porrim says softly, as if she can sense your disappointment. “It’ll be a long night. Come back at 2:00am and we’ll be on our way.”

Scowling, Eridan says, “Well what are we supposed to do for the rest of the day, vegetate?”

“Go get your dick sucked, for all I care,” Porrim blows him off.

“Does that mean I can go with them?” Karkat implores. When the older woman raises and eyebrow, he snaps, “ _No_ , the prospect of _anything_ you just implied does not excite me, though I may just pop a rage boner if I don’t get out of this fucking apartment.”

“Fine, go,” she allows, gesturing towards the door. “Be back for dinner, have fun being a third wheel.”

The three of you head out, unsure of what to do. Eridan decided not to go to the BHG today on the off chance he gets hurt on a job and his ability to join you is hindered, and you don’t think you can focus on anything besides going up to the Burbs. Luckily, Karkat is here to make the decision for you. “We’re going to get some shitty coffee so I can survive the rest of the day, come on.”

After drinking too much coffee (even with a wheat shortage, there seems to be no lack of coffee beans), you end up crashing at your apartment for hours, Karkat yelling at some reality TV show he put on with occasional quips from Eridan, though you and the latter are pretty distracted by the prospect of going home.

Well, it’s not _home_ anymore, not really, so you need to stop referring to it as such. Home shouldn’t be some threatening, stifling place where you live with the shadow of your gross legacy looming over you, preparing to stuff you into a compact box and mold you into an exact copy of another person; it should be a place of refuge, somewhere where you can feel warm with people you love, and that’s what this apartment has become for you, even if the AC breaks a lot during the summer and you have to use tons of extra blankets in the winter.

Like a lot of the dwellings in this building, this one had been abused in the past. There were scorch marks in the kitchen, cracks in the walls, water marks seeping through the ceiling, and a bug infestation that was hard to get rid of. You found spots of blood in the carpet under the bed and there’s a hole in the wall in the closet. Even when the owner of the building cleaned for the new tenant, the apartment was disguised as clean but really still contained many problems, like the lye that was in the pipes when you first moved in, which resulted in a series of events that are still cringe worthy. The neighbors must’ve thought someone was getting murdered in here from how much Eridan screamed at first.

But despite that, this apartment was the place you came home to and washed the pollution off your skin after trips to your beloved ocean. This apartment was a shield from the uppity world of the Burbs, housing you and keeping you safe from those who wished to find you. This apartment has been the site of many get-togethers with new friends that care about _you_ and not your position. It really has been a better home to you than the mansion on hospital grounds in the Burbs ever was.

Maybe Eridan still considers his old penthouse home, maybe he doesn’t; you’re not really sure, but you know that he chose to stay here after the two months that the bet dictated were up and complains about how shitty it is with a certain fondness. As long as you keep him grounded, you don’t think he’ll be tempted to stay.

You are, however, still a bit worried about seeing relics of your old life that could keep you there—more specifically, people. The plans you’ve gone over with Kankri dictated that you’d be weaving through the medical district a bit (just the outskirts, since the hospital is always bustling) and seeing as your mother is a huge influence there, she could happen to run into you, or Meenah could be leaving after a late night doing paperwork at her new practice, or one of the doctors or nurses you were so familiar with before see you and inquire about Pasadena and the cover your mother put on your disappearance.

It’s them you’re concerned about more than anything else, but the rational part of your mind tells you there’s no need for any of that, since they’re all probably _asleep_ , like any sane person at 3am should be.

But then again, your family isn’t exactly sane.

Karkat goes home for dinner, and Eridan heats up some leftover pizza from the other night. You two are the only people down here that like anchovies on your pizza, you swear, but even if they’re hormone laden and lab raised, the little fish are still damn good. You and Eridan spend the rest of the night alternating between sitcoms and the news, not speaking because you’re nervous and everything about going back to the Burbs has already been said, and all there is to do now is sleep until your alarm goes off.

 

* * *

 

Expectedly, you and Eridan are the first ones to arrive at the apartment upstairs, twenty minutes early and too awake for two o’clock in the morning. He’s got his “bulletproof” turtleneck on with dark purple pants that hug the muscles in his legs and his regular clunky boots. You had to dig a pair of black jeans out of your dresser because you prefer skirts and loose pants, but you wanted something a bit more covert to go with the theme. None of the shirts you own had a high enough collar, so you’re wearing a faux leather jacket that zips up to your neck.

Karkat and Porrim look exhausted, Kankri looks jittery with caffeine, and Kanaya is just staring at the ceiling with her fingers steepled in thought. You know the only reason she’s coming is genuine curiosity, which is a good reason in your books, but the rest of them are ready to throw some information around and win some support. Kankri and Porrim are going over final plans in hushed voices, not nearly as dissonant as they were earlier.

Rufioh is the next to arrive, pumped and ready for action. He grins as he plops down on the couch next to Eridan. The last to arrive, surprisingly, are the Leijon sisters, dressed in catsuits that they probably bought at some obscure sex shop, and you kind of want the address. Kankri’s demeanor changes when Meulin walks in, back straightening and forced smile pulling into place. She walks over and hugs him while Nepeta hangs back, eyes darting all around and narrowing slightly when she sights Eridan. For the first time since you’ve met her, the younger girl’s shirt hair isn’t under a blue cap—this one is black.

As it ticks closer to show time, Porrim loads all of the papers into two backpacks, handing one to Rufioh and keeping one for herself. Kankri offers to carry it for her, but she just raises a jewel-studded eyebrow and makes a slight adjustment of the pack on her shoulders. Everyone goes to get the components of their scrambler suits, which are pulled on awkwardly since they stick to the skin like latex. The material is perfectly clear and the gloves work like any other pairs you’ve ever worn, but the mask must be fitted. Corners are easily torn off and holes for your nose and mouth are cut into the strange material, but your eyes have to remain covered so no one can do a retinal scan; the creators of the masks realized this, so the material around your eyes isn’t sticky, though it feels weird when you blink. Someone would only be able to tell you were wearing the scrambler gear if they touched you.

Once everyone has their gear secured, Kankri takes out a garbage bag of weird fluffy things that turn out to be—

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Karkat deadpans.

You don’t know whether to side eye or laugh at the bag of wigs Kankri is unloading onto the floor. “I assure you, I am not,” Kankri says. “Seeing as I am the only one in the room who has prolonged experience in the Burbs, I know that the stereotype has some teeth to it. Of course, there are various shades of blonde,” he tosses a sandier one to Karkat and one so light it’s nearly white to Porrim, “and not everyone up there has that shade,” a mop of auburn hair lands in Eridan’s lap, “but it’ll be less conspicuous of us to stick with the supposed ‘norm’. Just as there are blondes down here, there are darker haired folk up there, so Nepeta and Kanaya will not be receiving wigs. Oh, and Feferi.” He looks at you with the closest thing to a smile he’s worn all day. “I doubt your mane would fit under a cap, and that is said with as much affection as I can muster. I do not mean to offend you.”

“Just as long as there’s not _too_ much affection there,” Eridan says, and you roll your eyes and dig your elbow into his side. “Yeah, I get what you mean,” you say.

Porrim starts to hand out wig caps, and Eridan just stares at it as the thing plops into his lap on top of the fuzz of red hair. You can see the _no_ clearly written on his face. “I always thought you’d look good ginger,” you say.

He exhales, releasing the longest sigh you’ve ever heard. Giggling, you take the cap and start trying to get it on his head. Soon, everyone is properly wigged out, with most people taking it in stride; Eridan and Rufioh are just frowning at one another desolately.

“I’ll review the plan one last time,” Kankri says, putting his tablet down on the table and pulling up a map that gets projected on the ceiling. He grabs a pen from the table and clicks a button so a little red dot appears on the ceiling. You’ve learned this past week that he really loves laser pointers. “Once we take the elevators, we will come out here,” the dot whizzes across the map to rest at a point to the southwest, “and travel north,” the pointer follows, “where we will split up, with Porrim and I taking these few blocks,” the little red blip follows his movements, circling the area, “Meulin and Nepeta going here, Karkat and Kanaya over at this area, Eridan and Feferi here, and Rufioh and Aranea—who will be meeting us at the elevators—going here.

“Mituna and Sollux are already prepared at a station closer to the elevators, and according to them everything’s ready for our arrival. You will have half an hour to scatter and hang up your papers before meeting us back at the elevators. If you come across anyone, do not approach and try to hide what you’re doing without being conspicuous. If the worst happens and the police are contacted, run like hell, call me, and try to find somewhere to wait it out. If the absolute _worst_ occurs and the authorities apprehend you… we are, if you don’t mind my expletive, properly fucked.” Kankri steeples his fingers, looking pensive. “Are there any questions before we begin?”

“Yeah, when did our political meetings become the plot of an awful reverse heist film?” Karkat snaps.

“Alright, it seems like everyone is on the same page. Time to get going,” Kankri says, ignoring his brother and heading towards the door.

“Can I break windows?” Rufioh asks as Porrim locks the door.

“No,” Kanrki responds firmly.

“Start a fire?” the muscular man intones as the group heads down the stairs.

“ _No_ , Rufioh.”

“Take off all my clothes and start grinding on a street lamp?” he quips, walking backwards in front of Kankri as you head down the street.

“If you want to get arrested for public indecency, go right ahead,” Kanrki seethes, teeth gritted. “I think it’s time to split now.”

Grabbing your buddies, you all head off in groups of two, save for Rufioh, whose partner is waiting up in the Burbs. You’ll be arriving at the elevators in staggered clusters, so a large sum of people doesn’t show up simultaneously, and reuniting within the abandoned station. The commerce side of things will still be up and going, but the pedestrian traffic center will be deserted, policed only by cameras that won’t be seeing even a finger of you. The doors will be unlocked and ready, the elevators will be operational without signaling to the control facility that they are moving, and things should go seamlessly.

“Hey guys,” Rufioh says, jogging to catch up with you after realizing he’s alone, “mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” Eridan says, sliding his hands into his pockets. He seems pretty nonchalant about all of this upon first glance, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, even though he’s forcing them to be slumped. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. You can’t help notice that he’s more soft-spoken when he’s not rallying people for his cause. “I never really got to say thanks to both of you. For, ah, supporting me at the meeting last weekend. It was really good of you.”

You smile. “Hopefully it’ll all pay off tonight!” you respond, and he grins back.

“Careful,” Eridan warns under his breath, and you feel a bit chastised. Though the cameras in the Burbs won’t pick up your speech, the ones in the streets down here listen to every word, though Eridan says they’re not as attentive as they should be. The silence between the three of you doesn’t get _too_ awkward.

You’re the second group to arrive at the elevators, about seven minutes behind Kanaya and Karkat. You wait in one of the inner hallways away from any windows, silent and contemplating, until the others arrive over a time frame of half an hour. When the gang is assembled, you head towards the loading area.

It’s just as easy as it was on paper. The Captors have outdone themselves, making everything flow seamlessly: locks _click_ open as you approach, the automatic lighting systems are disabled so nothing is triggered as you walk through, the metal detectors built into the walls of the waiting room stay silent, and when you reach the first line of passenger elevators, the doors to one on the far left slide effortlessly open. Just as you’re about to get on, you freeze.

You don’t know why. One second you were walking and the next you’re rooted to the ground, unable to move or speak or signal that something is wrong. A lump of cold dread forms instantly in your stomach as you stare forward, not really seeing what’s in front of you.

 _“There’s this dankass concept called ‘social Darwinism,’”_ you remember your mother explaining to you, but you don’t really know why you’re recalling it at this point. “ _And that means the people below are down there for a reason. They are dumb and poor and gross, so you need to wake the fuck up and stop romanticizing the Furthest Ring. They’re not worth even a second of our time."_

“Fef,” Eridan says in your ear, and you blink. He tugs your hand, looking a bit embarrassed, and you smile sheepishly. “Sorry,” you apologize, avoiding eye contact with the lot of them.

“It’s okay,” he says under his breath. “Come on.” You’d be reassured by his presence if his hands weren’t shaking.

Somehow, you get your feet to move, and soon you’re standing in the elevator with the rest of them as the thick metal doors slide close.

As the lift begins to move up, slowly but smoothly accelerating, Kankri comments, “It’s okay, to be afraid. I was terrified my first time.”

 _This isn’t my first_ , you want to say, but instead you purse your lips and nod. You’d rather be seen as a coward than proven a liar.

The trip up isn’t very long—it takes a couple of minutes at most to go thousands of feet into the sky. No one says a word after Kankri’s reassurance to you, and it would feel strange to break the silence, even if the Captors are capturing and replacing the audio feed. When the doors open, you recognize the man on the other side as the owner of a billion dollar porn empire.

“Come on,” Dirk Strider says. He looks less made up than he does in his magazine shoots, but everything else remains the same: simple collared shirt, spiked up hair, triangular sunglasses, dark jeans, and a katana strapped to his back that you highly doubt is regulation. You’d been in the same room with him before but you’d never spoken, since there was always a current of animosity running subtly between him and your mother. “The window is short, we have to go.”

Kankri’s the first one out, and everyone else follows. Exchanging a look with Eridan tells you that he’s not in any danger of being recognized by the eldest Strider, so you should be alright. You make sure that your scrambler gear is secure before following the pack.

You and Eridan take up the rear. Dirk, Kankri, and Porrim are talking in hushed voices, with short pauses in between, where you guess Mituna is interjecting through an earpiece. You can only hear little bits of conversation:

“—’s Aranea?”

“Her mom’s keeping her on a tighter—”

“—catching on?”

“—can’t happen, there’s too much—”

You stop listening. The hallways flowing from the elevators are exactly how you remember them: long, gray, and echoing. You pass numerous cameras along the way—even though they’re carefully hidden in the metal paneling, you can tell where they are—but the alarms remain off, so it seems like the Captors did their work well, no Eridan needed.

Then you’re out in the main terminal, and it’s like the entire world has opened up. The room is encased in a dome, the ceiling almost a hundred feet high and decorated with constellations of the April sky; the illusion changes as the Earth moves and the patterns shift. Your footsteps are quiet on the dark carpet, and it feels strange to see the place shut down, since last time you were here it was bustling with people (traders, mostly). The commerce desks are set up all around the sides of the room in a circle, but there are lines running down the middle for pedestrian traffic. Even though there should be someone at the large marble desk in front of the main doors, it’s empty, though the lamp sitting on it is still on.

Everyone else goes outside with no hesitance. It even seems like some—Kanaya and Karkat mostly—are eager to see what it looks like. Kankri’s the only one in the group that’s been up here, or so they believe, so he takes it in with a stoic face. You and Eridan, on the other hand, aren’t so unaffected.

You watch him as he swallows, fists clenching and unclenching. When he looks over at you, he catches you staring, but you were waiting for that anyway. _Ready?_ you mouth to him and resist the urge to reach for his hand.

His jaw clenches, but he nods. Without anything holding you back, you push one of the giant glass doors.

And the world is _alive_.

Despite the doors’ glassy appearance, they weren’t really portraying what was on the other side. While they gave you the impression that the city would be immersed in darkness, light is everywhere: lampposts burn, cars turn into streaks of light as they whiz by, advertisements catch your attention with their flashing colors and simple patterns. The dome you just walked out of is tall, but the buildings surrounding it reach up to scrape the ceiling of the world, dots of light in almost every window. You look at the others to gauge their reactions, and you see everything from awe to revulsion and sometimes both, like they don’t know whether to be enchanted by this new world or disgusted by it.

Eridan looks like you do—bittersweet.

“Stop staring,” Dirk commands, already starting down the street. “Act normal; just because you can fool the cameras that doesn’t mean you can trick everyone else.”

Once you get off the main stretch, the people start to dissipate. As your distance from the terminal increases, the chance that you’ll be caught swings in the other direction. It’s startling how familiar the entire area is, even though you haven’t been up here in over two years. Not a whole lot has changed, besides the advertisements and subtle upgrades to buildings.

The first block or two away contains corporate offices, but soon you get into the shopping district. You pass the store where Eridan bought his favorite trench coat and the salon where your mother gets her hair done. You see a fountain that you once shoved Eridan into and a panel that used to advertise your mother’s hospital, but now displays an ad for a gala dressmaker. The store where you bought your iPad passes on your left, and a hedge comes up in the center of the road, turning the area into a roundabout. The design of it changes monthly, and right now it’s been cut into a flock of swans. Whoever does it always does a spectacular job.

…God, you didn’t think you’d ever be _nostalgic_ about the Burbs, but that’s what’s happening now.

Eridan seems to notice a building up ahead, and his steps falter. You can already see on his face that he’s berating himself for that—for being affected by emotions—and you hope that the trip is short. You follow his gaze and see a high building that looks like someone took a pyramid and pinched the top between their fingers, twisting and stretching it into the sky. You know that the Ampora penthouse sits at the very top.

This time, you _do_ take his hand and tug him along. He seems mollified with the reassurance, and you see a leak of tension come from his shoulders.

You can’t get that close to the hospital, since more people are going to be over there, so your group stops about five blocks from it and Porrim begins distributing fliers. “Break into teams of two,” she commands, “and meet back in front of this building in half an hour. If somehow you manage to get yourselves caught, we’ll leave you because we gave you all the tech you needed to get by so it would have to be due to your dumbassery.”

You sincerely doubt they’d leave anyone behind, but you’ll be back in time anyway. Each stack is deposited in your arms and then you and Eridan are off. You let him lead because your old building isn’t even in view, and he takes you in the opposite direction of his home. Most of the advertisements are off as you go by, since the signs are based on motion and won’t bother lighting up when no one is there to see. That’s how you know the scrambler suits are good—not a single ad has detected you.

Tape dangles from one of your wrists with the rest of your bracelets, but you won’t use that until later. For now, you and Eridan walk together in the quiet city, tossing down a flier every few feet. Zigzagging through the streets makes you run into Rufioh and Dirk once, but not many others are out and about. At the end of one particular block, you turn to see Eridan’s apartment complex straight down the road, albeit a mile or two away. It’s like the building is haunting him.

“I almost want to go and say hello,” he say quietly, mouth barely moving, “but I know I might never come down if I did that.”

You had to let go of his hand to take the fliers, so you get close to his side and rest your cheek on his shoulder. It’s the one that got shot up weeks back, but it’s healed well. “You could go, you know,” you say. “No one is keeping you here.”

His shoulders tense, like he took that as you _want_ him to leave, but then he relaxes as if he thought better of it. “Have you ever thought about it? D’you think you’d be better off staying up here?”

“No,” you say immediately, having thought about this for years. “No, I had to get out. This place is toxic, my mother is awful, and I would’ve just been disowned anyway for not wanting to follow in her footsteps.”

Eridan’s cheek falls onto your hair. “Haven’t you missed Meenah?”

Your feelings about your sister are… mixed, even after all this time. Sure, you love her and think that she’s really awesome most of the time, but others… she can be very cruel, and is very much a product of her society. “I _have_ missed her,” you admit as you tape a flier to the side of a jewelry store, “but not enough that I’d uproot the life I’ve created for myself down in the Furthest Ring. I haven’t really quite found my niche there either, but I will!”

Separating yourself from him, you drop another piece of paper. When your eyes flit over to him, you catch him looking at you with that expression he sometimes gets, and it makes you wonder if he really just thinks of you as a friend because his eyes say something else. It makes you question things once in a while, too. You give him a little smile and he blinks hard, turning his head to look at the ground. “Let’s keep going, then,” he says.

You get as close as you possibly can to the genetics district that sits in an almost protective ring around the hospital, scattering fliers and hoping the wind takes them down those streets. Perhaps your mother or Meenah will find one, and…

“And” nothing. Neither one of them would care. Most people will probably just shrug and carry on with their day, completely unaffected, but some will keep it in their minds, and when they see reports of protest on the news, they’ll remember the fliers and perhaps lend some support. Just those few people up here have so much _influence_ compared to people in the Furthest Ring, and if they can use their privilege correctly, they could be huge assets.

That makes you think that maybe you and Eridan should reveal yourselves. It’s not like you’re running from the law or anything—just your parents, and you highly doubt your mother wants anything to do with you after you just _left_ one day. You wonder how Eridan’s family would react; you know his relationship with his father has always been a bit murky, but his mother would welcome him back with open arms.

You see the building on an end street just as you’re leaving the medical practitioner area. The decision to go towards it is not made consciously; your feet just start moving down the street. “Fef?” Eridan calls after you, and hesitates for a brief moment before following.

“So this is it, then,” you say quietly when you come to a stop outside of the building. It’s white and sterile looking, just like every other one in this plaza, and the large title of _Meenah Peixes, G.D._ is emblazoned on the wall next to the door. There’s a model of her, correct proportions and everything, leaning on the beginning of her name. Every once in a while, she winks, and her blond braids move slightly in an imaginary breeze. It’s pretty simple compared to what you thought she would’ve had installed; you’re almost surprised that she doesn’t have a giant gold statue out front in her honor.

Eridan waits behind you as you stare at her. It feels almost like you really _are_ face-to-face with your estranged sister, but in the end she’s just a hologram on loop. _Why aren’t you down at the meetings with Aranea?_ you question her silently.

 _Because I only_ make _bucks by_ supporting _bucks,_ she answers back, and you swear you see the smile on the pantomime of her widen. It’s always been about money with her.

You almost want to see if she’s in her office, but it is three in the morning so she’s most likely at home asleep or clubbing. Sighing, you turn and start heading back towards your meeting place. Eridan seems to realize you want a moment or two of silence, so he just strolls along at your side, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Karkat and Kanaya intercept you about halfway back. They still look a bit awed by the entire place, but you want their actual opinions instead of just what you read from their faces. “So what do you think?” you ask as you continue down the street.

Scowling, Karkat makes a cutting gesture across his neck and hisses, “They could hear us, dumbass.”

Eridan chuckles, shaking his head. “No, Kar, they can’t because the cameras are only for _visual_ input. There’s nothing for audio, and since the scrambler gear is taking care of masking us from them, we’re not in any danger from the security cameras. As long as we don’t talk where actual _people_ can overhear us, we’re in the clear.”

Huffing, Karkat mutters, “I wish you’d fucking told me that _earlier_. That’s not how the ones in the Furthest Ring work.”

Shrugging, Eridan says, “You didn’t ask. They don’t trust us down there, so they add audio recording for extra protection.”

After a beat or two of silence, Kanaya says, “It’s a beautiful place, in its own way. Very clean and neat. Not a lot of advertising, except near the elevators.”

“That’s because there are sensors in the framework that detect motion,” you explain, “and since we’re in the suits, they aren’t triggered, hence their blankness. Since there were other people near the elevators, they were triggering the ads.”

“Interesting,” Kanaya says, and luckily for you, she doesn’t question how you know that, just like Karkat didn’t attack Eridan for knowing how the cameras work. “I wish I’d been able to talk to more of—I mean,” she backpedals, a bit of a blush appearing on her cheeks, “some of the people. They could be interesting.”

Karkat sighs resignedly, hanging his head. “God, Kanaya, you already let it slip, so just _tell_ them.”

You and Eridan exchange a look before both of you turn to Kanaya. “What does he mean, Kan?” Eridan asks when her lips remain pursed.

“I, um…” Kanaya starts, unable to make eye contact with any of you, “ran into someone, quite literally. She had picked up one of the fliers and was reading it, not paying attention to where she was going and I was taping one to a building, so she bumped into me, apologized, and then started a conversation. She wanted to know why we were putting these all over the place, and I was afraid she was going to call the police on us, but she seemed to have… a scholarly interest.”

Snorting, Karkat says, “Scholarly, yeah. That’s why she gave you her Persterchum and stared at your ass when you walked away.”

Kanaya’s blush intensifies, and you laugh. “Kanaya’s got a cru-ush,” you sing.

“Oh, hush,” she reprimands. “I just think she was a good sign that there may be people up here who are sympathetic to our cause.”

“How long do you think it’ll take before they’re fucking in a pleasure room at Midnight Runners?” Eridan murmurs in your ear, and Kanaya turns to give him a lethal look. As to not earn her ire, you do not comment, though you do smother a smile.

It’s pretty quiet the rest of the way back, with a bit of awkwardness leaking from Kanaya and Karkat scowling at everything, but you and Eridan are distracted, still taking everything in. When you near the meeting place, he touches your hand and nods his head towards an old restaurant you used to visit when you needed to study for a particularly hard test. There was a contained forest ecosystem on the inside, with animal species that were found nowhere else in the world and much less humidity than you’d find outside. It sends a bittersweet pang through you to still find it open. Maybe you’ll go—

No. You’ll never come back there, because you can never come back again. Tonight wasn’t necessarily a mistake, but it awoke something within you that you were afraid of feeling: nostalgia. Through all of the pressure and expectations, life was easier when you didn’t have to worry about scrounging up enough money for rent or patching Eridan up if something went wrong and you could’ve easily stayed in your tiny fishbowl, peering out at the world from a safe distance with everything around you distorted.

But… in the end, even if it wasn’t always fun and it wasn’t the grand adventure you thought it would be, you’re glad you left the Burbs. You’re happy to be gone.

Having to remind yourself, though, brings up some doubt. Why do you have to try so hard to convince yourself that you’re happier in the Furthest Ring? Shouldn’t you just _know_ that’s where you belong? Isn’t that what home is—a place that is completely, indisputably _yours_?

(You’re afraid of the answer because you _don’t_ know where you belong.)

 _Stop_ , you tell yourself. You’re just tying up your thoughts in knots, and that’s not good when you’re trying to convince yourself of a truth. When you first left the Burbs, you were _always_ certain of things: certain of the fact life out of your mother’s shadow would be better, certain that getting Eridan out of the aggressive atmosphere would save him, certain that you were going to win the bet, certain that the people below were waiting to be saved. Hell, that last one was what you based a lot of your ideals on—that the poor downtrodden common folk were waiting for someone to give them a voice and keep them safe.

When you were young, you were convinced they were waiting for you specifically.

But you were naïve and sheltered and, overall, very wrong. Not about everything, but about the things that mattered most.

Everyone meets up inside of the building, in the hallway just out of view of the wall of glass that is the front of the building, and you’re on edge because everything seemed to go all right. No one ended up missing, no one was seen or captured by police, and all of the papers were gone, scattered across city blocks and hopefully ready to fall into the waiting hands of potential supporters. There will only be a few, you know (most will scoff and toss the paper aside, as focusing on those below will not raise their pay or give them prosperity), but any support topside will make a difference, you think.

The elevator ride back down is not filled with the tense silence that permeated the first—almost everyone seems to be in a very chatty mood, talking about things they saw or did or heard. It’s hard to keep track of all of the conversations going, but you can tell that there are only three silent ones, which are the three people who have all been to the Burbs before.

You see Porrim and Eridan exchange a look, and you know from his strained smile that you’ll need to talk to him later. You catch Nepeta’s gaze just as she’s looking away from the same thing you were just making note of, and you can tell she saw something. If anyone else notices your uncharacteristic quietness, they don’t call you out on it.

Everyone leaves the building back in the Furthest Ring individually, and you all end up back at Kanrki’s apartment at around four. You take off your scrambler gear and those who had wigs shed them, shaking out their hair and massaging their heads. “Never again,” Eridan says solemnly.

As people start to disperse, all in relatively high spirits, you turn to Porrim. “We can help clean up before we go,” you volunteer.

She shakes her head, smothering a yawn. “No, Feferi, we’re all just going to crash tonight. Thanks for the offer.”

You say your goodbyes. Tired and satisfied, you and Eridan head downstairs and go inside. Getting ready for bed seems to drag, but when you’re finally in pajamas with the lights turned off in the bedroom, neither of you even get under the covers, opting instead to sit cross-legged on top of the comforter like you used to do at sleepovers when you were children.

“It was right there.” Eridan is the first to speak, and you know he’s talking about his old home. “You could see it, plain as day—how could you _not_? It’s one of the tallest buildings in the Burbs, and it’s the top floor so it’s easy to pick out, and I _knew_ I would see it but I wasn’t expecting…”

“The nostalgia?” you supply quietly.

Gulping, he nods. In a small voice, he says, “I just wanted to say hello.”

Carefully, you take his hands. His fingers feel so thin without the bulky rings he usually adorns them with. “That’s natural,” you say. “You love your family, and they love you.”

He catches the double meaning in your words, and he squeezes. “Yours loved you too.”

“Meenah, maybe,” you say. “But not my mother, and that’s okay. I don’t love her either. All she’s ever cared about are her image and her research. I would never go back for her.” Changing the topic, you ask, “Are you feeling okay?”

He nods. “I skipped yesterday’s Serenity dose so I could take it today. I think that may have helped a bit.”

“So you’re not feeling any urges to start killing off those in the lower levels?”

Scowling, he removes his hands from yours and places them in his lap. “Do you really think I’m that fickle, that unstable?” he questions, and he’s trying to sound snide but you hear the hurt under it. “I’ve changed.”

“I know you have,” you say softly.

Seemingly running out of steam, his shoulders slump. “Let’s talk in the morning.”

“It _is_ morning,” you point out.

“You know what I mean,” he says. Getting up, he crosses the room and turns off the light before lifting up the comforter and climbing under. “Goodnight, Fef.”

“Sleep well, Eridan.”

Just as you find a comfortable spot under the covers, you begin to hear little pings against the window. Brow scrunching in confusion, you sit back up and look over. Little drops of rain strike the glass, and they’re steadily growing in number, already beginning to clump together and run down the glass in rivulets.

That is not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediately after this is posted, a ficlet will appear on my fanfic blog (sonicsymphony.tumblr.com). You see, there are a lot of things going on in this 'verse, and Feferi and Eridan can't witness everything. This will be the first ficlet of many, and they won't have an impact on the main storyline, but you'll see characters that don't always have the spotlight shining on them, as well as your (well, my) old favorites. The stars of this particular one are Rose and Dirk.


	7. VII- 141 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been paying attention to the chapter titles, you may be confused, as the number of days are completely different. That is because I revamped my outline, seeing as it was rather ambitious of me to think I could stretch it all out for so long. Along with that outline editing comes a solid foundation for every chapter of Act 2; it looks like it's going to be fifteen chapters compared to Act 1's ten. The length is making me contemplate splitting this up into three separate stories, with each act being its own entity. I shall have to think about that more before I come to a decision.
> 
> This chapter, for the first time in _Insurgency_ history, is unbeta'd. However, I would still like to thank derseandprospitcollide for helping me up to this point!
> 
> Narrator: Eridan

Nearly a month and a half after your foray into the Burbs, the loss still weighs heavily on the shoulders of those who cared.

It had rained for about half an hour, and that was enough to ruin the majority of the fliers. The paper and ink weren’t the kind of quality that you’d get in the Burbs: they became soggy and fell apart, with the ink running into illegible streams of color. Kankri had received a call from Dirk Strider revealing the damage, and if his sample area was constant throughout the city, only fliers that were taped to buildings with overhangs had been saved.

At the meeting on Sunday, the failure was fully disclosed, and planning began for an actual rally that would take the supporters to the base of the metal plateau and have them sit in silence. There would be no threats, no shouts, no violence. Just quiet defiance. To avoid the same level of catastrophe that hung over the trip into the Burbs, however, there would be careful planning (and they’d check the fucking weather report).

This is on your mind now because less than an hour ago you’d been at the Maryam-Vantas apartment, and Kankri is still fluctuating between periods of brooding and intense planning.  The first official protest does not yet have a date set, but you know Kankri well, and despite his promises of protest before summer, you guess it’ll be done by the end of next year. You snort into your coffee at your own mental joke, and Fef gives you a weird look from the other side of your small card table. Instead of the grand dining room you had back home, you’ve just got this tiny plastic table shoved into the corner of your cramped kitchen with two old wooden chairs. It’s uncomfortable, but you’ve sort of gotten used to it.

After you finish your coffee and Fef finalizes a moving job she’ll be doing for someone between the trip to Derse you’ll be taking and the meeting tonight, you’re ready to head out. You slide on your boots, resist the urge to grab your coat (you love the damn thing, but it’s June and fucking _hot_ ), and go outside, locking the door behind you.

You’re going to Derse today for three main reasons: your Serenity refill, this past month’s newspaper chip for the Burbs, and gossip time with Aradia. Fef has gotten really close to Ara lately, so you don’t really mind sitting around and looking at the dusty artifacts as the girls chat, unless Sol is there to ruin your day. He’s an insufferable prick and you can’t stand him, and _no_ it’s not just because you’ve never managed to beat him at _Warlord Gamma_. It’s just a stupid fucking tablet game, there’s no need for animosity for some dinky free-to-play.

Fef seems a bit wary when you head into the building. It’s probably your fault—you’re banned from the weaponry floor because you somehow got into a fight with a dealer that was selling knockoff Taurus Model 85 collector pistols and labeling them as the real thing. You had to get involved and tell people what a scammer he was!

According to Fef, though, you breaking the man’s jaw went a bit too far.

“Eridan,” she warns, as if she knows exactly what you’re think about, “don’t—"

“God, I _know_ ,” you say, rolling your eyes. “That was a year ago! Can we just forget about it?”

“I’m still not convinced that your people skills have improved,” Fef says solemnly, but you can hear the gibe under it.

“Oh hush,” you sigh, and she threads her arm through yours (it seems affectionate, but you know it’s insurance) before hitting the button for the rickety elevator.

As always, you’ll save the pharmacy for last. Usually Fef goes to see her friend first, but today you’ll start with getting the practical stuff done. Black market shopping is marginally more exciting than regular grocery shopping; the best part about it is that there are no huge lines or IDs to show or rations or supremacy systems; if you can afford it, you can buy it.

…And admittedly, you can’t buy much. You have just enough for what you came for because you did a job yesterday. (It was a rather messy one, but there’s nothing to be bothered about besides the state it left your fingernails. If you were still in the Burbs, you’d need an emergency manicure, but now all you can do is hope the blood and dirt you still feel under them is imaginary.) The methods of payment differ from job to job: sometimes you’re given cash, but other times the money is downloaded onto the BHG’s server and funneled into your debit card account upon completion. Today it’s the latter approach, and Fef has your card securely tucked in her purse. Seeing as you lost your first one within two months of being down here, she likes to keep an eye on it while you’re together.

You go through room after room, trying to pick out the little things you need without attracting much attention. When you make it to the newspaper stand, they’re all out of the most recent chips, so you’ll have to live with the one from last week; at least it’s discounted. Once you’re all done with the random bits and bobs, you head down a floor to Aradia’s shop.

“Yes!” she exclaims the second you walk through the door, grinning fiercely. It scares the one patron of the store—an old man with graying hair and skewed glasses—enough for him to almost drop the crystal chunk he’s holding. “Perfect!”

Running around the other side of her desk, she goes into the no longer functional bathroom that serves as her storage area. “What is it this time?” Fef calls as the gentleman in the corner of the store puts down the rock and hurries out into the hall.

“I found more stuff!” Ara exclaims. “It’s interesting! Eridan, I think you’ll like it in particular.”

Your eyebrows shoot towards your hairline. “Why?”

“You,” she accuses, lugging a large wooden frame out of storage, “are a history geek.”

Fef hurries over to help her and together, they lean the frame against the wall, picture side facing outwards. It’s old and tattered, even though it’s under a layer of cracked glass. The parchment is yellow, the once colorful ink faded, and any of the wording is pretty much illegible. It looks like some sort of map, but you only recognize a small part of it.

And that’s what clues you in.

“ _Oh_ ,” you exhale, a sort of melancholy settling over you. Even though you’ve never seen something like this before, you can factor in the piece of the landmass you recognize and fill the rest of the blanks. You see the peninsula where you are and from that you can estimate the locations of Pasadena and Houston, all on the same latitude. Otherwise, though, everything is foreign to you. “It’s the world. Before.”

The look Aradia gives you is sad, though there is a certain hardness to it. “Yeah,” she says, and you’re surprised to hear bitterness. “Before.”

Fef crouches to get on eyelevel with the map as she peers at the landmasses. Her eyes travel across every ocean and every continent, absorbing what it can teach her as Ara goes back into the bathroom. “That isn’t all. There were pictures stuffed between the map and the back of the frame.”

She comes back with dozens of photos in her hands, and she plops onto the floor, spreading them all out before her. It hardly takes a second for Fef to fall beside her, but you descend more gracefully, folding your legs under you. You spend the next few minutes looking at all of them, trying to conceal any wonder that may be on your face. There are photos of green rolling hills and jagged mountains, which are so extraterrestrial to you since Canaveral is only flat, and a white powder coats some of the objects—you think it’s snow, but the closest you’ve ever seen to it are bags of cocaine. There are brilliant animals and lands of ice and flowers, of lights dancing in the sky and vast stretches of sand.

It’s so sad to think that all of this has been obliterated.

You learned about the conflict back in the Burbs, when you were young and questions of “are we the only ones?” were prominent. Nearly a century ago, there was a great war where one power tried to overthrow a country that the three city-states belonged to, and it left the entire world a wasteland. It was never meant to end that way and it was a tragedy, but those in the few cities left on this continent managed to pull the best of humanity together to survive. The world you survive in has come to be seen as a symbol of perseverance and victory, and even though you know it’s a glorified tale, you enjoy it. There is a part of you that is very appreciative of aesthetics, and he yearns to see sights like those of the photos in person, but chances are all of the scenes have been reduced to dust.

“Oh, Eridan, did you see this one?” Fef asks, handing you a photo of a beach. The sand is pristine, the water nearly clear, and you see fins in the background. By the curves, you can tell they’re dolphins. You only ever saw them in person once when you were very young, but apparently they used to be plentiful around here.

“What a shame,” you say, and Fef seems to share your sentiment.

Aradia bites her lip and crosses her arms, staring at the wall as if it personally ruined the world. “Feferi, I want to show you something,” she says finally, breaking eye contact with one of the weird faces on a tapestry and looking at Fef. “We can’t go today, because I’m going to have to talk to Sollux and make some plans, but I think there’s something you should see.”

Fef blinks, taken aback. “Okay,” she agrees, “what is it?”

Shaking her head, Aradia says, “You’ll see.”

Well, you’re obviously not invited, but that’s probably good for proving you’re not codependent. “Is it dangerous?” you question, your eyebrows drawing inward suspiciously. “Is that why you’re being evasive?”

“No,” she denies, shaking her head. “It’ll be entirely safe, no need to worry. I just think it’s important.” As an afterthought, she adds, “You can come too, if you want.”

You’re incredibly tempted to take her offer, but you decline. “Nah, I don’t want to crash your girl party.”

Aradia shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

While Fef and Ara catch up, you browse the store, touching almost everything and wishing you had some money to blow on useless junk. Aradia was right earlier—you’ve always been quite the history geek, though you’ve tried to push it down while in the Furthest Ring; thumps aren’t supposed to know anything about battles or presidents or warfare in general. It must suck being so ignorant.

Nearly an hour later, you’re saying goodbye to Ara with plans to see her tonight at the meeting and heading down a floor. Scratch what you said earlier about there being no lines at Derse—you have to wait in one at the pharmacy, though it isn’t as monstrous as the ones at regular stores on ration days. There are two people ahead of you—a man in his early forties with a bad cough and an elderly woman, shawl wrapped tightly around her head—so instead of pitching a fit, you read newspapers on Fef’s tablet, looking over her shoulder. She’s currently reading an article about an improvement to hydroelectric grids offshore that makes you frown because it could just lead to _more_ pollution. Maybe it’s time for you to go jam your foot up someone’s ass.

Then the pharmacist is calling out “Next!” and you can tell that she’s high on the job, _again_. Somehow Fef wonders why you don’t really like her touching your meds.

“I need a refill,” you tell her, placing the empty canister on the counter. Delrina just stares at it for a moment as Fef tries to start a conversation with her at the same time, but then she blinks and takes it in her hand, adjusts her glasses, and traipses off to the back room. “What do you think she’s gotten into today?” you murmur.

“ _Eridan_ ,” Fef chastises sharply.

Tilting your head to the side, you hypothesize, “Probably just pot, since I don’t see any new needle marks on her arms and usually there’s powder on the counters if she’s been snortin—”

Fef stamps on your foot and you yelp just as Delrina comes back into the room. She hands you the bottle back, but that can’t be right, because it almost feels empty. You shake it, hearing the minuscule amount of pills rattle inside before taking the top off and peering in. “There are only three.”

Delrina shrugs languidly. “A high profile buck died because of this shit, and it’s unearthing a lot of dangerous stuff that they’ve been trying to cover up. Since Serenity’s a plant pill that we don’t mix here, our last shipment is what we have, so unless you want to pay a _lot_ more, this is what you’re getting.” 

Anger turns your lips into a sneer, and you’d never admit that fear is the cause of your increasing heartbeat. “Listen, I don’t give a shit if the fucking _archbishop_ died because of these meds; I need _more_ of them. These’ll last me a week, and _then_ fucking what?"

For once, Fef doesn’t tell you to calm down, probably because Delrina remains unfazed. “Hopefully all of the court drama will be done with and we’ll start getting shipments again. It’s just a little embargo on a faulty product, happens all the time.”

“How did the buck die?” Fef questions, sounding concerned.

The pharmacist, once again, shrugs like she couldn’t care less, and you’re tempted to shoot her on the spot. “They know it wasn’t an OD. Chemicals in her brain went haywire and then she just up n’ _died_. I don’t know much else.”

“Do you anyone who does?” Fef implores.

Delrina shakes her head. “Nah, Feferi. Sorry. Debit card?”

“What if I just fucking walk out with it?” you snap, but Fef is already resignedly digging through her purse. Once Fef has paid, the card is back in her possession, and your pills are secure in your pocket, you spit on the desk and storm out.

Fef’s not far behind you, and she grabs your arm and pulls you to a stop before you can hit the elevator and get the hell out of here. “Eridan, this is _not_ an excuse for you to act like a raving douchebag!”

“Well, _sorry_!” you exclaim, rolling your eyes so hard it feels like they could pop out of their sockets. “I just learned that I’m dependent on a drug that has a lethal conspiracy tied to it, so maybe if you could take a second and try to _understand_ , you’d realize I’m allowed to be a bit pissed.”

The word she picks out of your rant is, “‘ _Dependent’_? You told me you could stop whenever!”

“Maybe if I tapered off, like you’re _supposed_ to. I’ve got three left. _Three_. What the fuck am I supposed to do except quit? I don’t have any other damn options!”

She takes a deep breath, wringing her hands in front of her. “Eridan, I know you’re scared—” (“ _Never_ ,” you bite, but her speech doesn’t halt.) “—but we can try to find another place to get it. There are probably even alternate therapies and stuff, since Serenity isn’t even legal down here, so we can try to look into it. And maybe… maybe it’ll turn out you don’t need them as much down here as you needed them in the Burbs. The atmosphere’s a lot different than it was up there.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Fef,” you say bitterly. Pinching the bridge of your nose and closing your eyes tight, you take a deep breath and will away the water that’s beginning to pool in the corners. Crying when you’re frustrated is so fucking stupid and you hate it. “Come on, let’s just go.”

Out of pity, she loops her arm through yours as you leave the building and head towards the bus stop. On the way there, you’re so out of it that you almost run right into one of the monorail track supports just as one of the cars shoots above you, creating a subtle humming noise that aggravates your budding headache. It’s not until you’ve scanned your cards and are sitting down in the hard plastics seats of the city bus that you realize that your hands are shaking.

Calling up old teachings, you take a deep breath through your teeth and focus for about five seconds. It’s one of your slowest times in terms of speed, but within those moments, you’re able to make your hands motionless. Somehow, it’s a comfort that you haven’t lost everything you were taught in the Burbs. You close your eyes, pillow your cheek on Fef’s head, breathe through your nose, and wonder if this is where everything will start going to hell.

 

* * *

 

 

Ever since Aradia got Derse’s old ballroom area for the meeting after the Burbs escapade, the meetings have taken place there. Sure, it’s closer to the outskirts of the city than Midnight Runners was, but everyone realized what a good idea it turned out to be when the attendance was more than could’ve been predicted. Hundreds of people could not fit in that dingy bar.

That really doesn’t matter now, though, since not nearly as many people bothered to show up to this one. Perhaps the lower turn out at the meeting has to do with the fliers still; you thought that people would’ve stopped caring about that by now. The thing that’s the most surprising is that there’s a regular or two absent: Wayland isn’t in his usual place just out of the influential loop, and two or three women that sit at a table in the corner and gossip religiously every week are gone. If Kankri really wants to keep progressing, he should get better at not losing followers.

You can tell he notices the lower turnout, and Rufioh has discerned it as well. That means this meeting could go in two ways: either Ruf shuts up and tries not to cause a scene so more people will be likelier to come back (even if he has to sit on the table biting his lip and rocking back and forth from the effort of staying silent), or he flips his shit in an attempt to get his way, like he did a couple of weeks ago. You don’t know which would be more entertaining to watch.

“Hey!” Fef greets as the two of you approach the circular table. As per usual, the group consists of Karkat, Kanaya, Aradia, and Sollux; there are two chairs between Karkat and Aradia, which you and Fef slide into.

“Kankri better up his game, Kar,” you tell his, swooping over to steal a sip of his drink. It’s only water tonight, you note with disappointment, but that’s probably because you’re not in a bar anymore and if you want alcohol, you have to bring it with you. “If you want me to be impressed, you’ll need the same number of people from a couple of Sundays ago at _every_ meeting.”

“Well good thing this isn’t the _Eridan Actium Show_ , and we don’t have to suck your dick and stroke your ego to appease you,” Karkat sighs, chin resting on his hand. “I’m sure it’s just an off week. Not everyone attends religiously.”

“Whatever you say.” You lean back in your chair, arms crossed behind your head as you wait for the meeting to begin.

“It’s still probably because of, um, the utter failure of the Burbs thing. Remember?” a voice pipes up.

Oh. You didn’t even see the younger Nitram at your table. You probably should’ve noticed him, since the arm room is sparse enough without him. At least he brings his own chair.

Honestly, though, it’s no surprise you didn’t see him at first. Sure, you’re nice enough to him because Rufioh’s a friend (he wouldn’t be happy about you bullying his little brother, even though the elder isn’t incredibly close to the younger), but you’ve never really liked Tavros. He’s weak, spineless, and everything thumps are supposed to be wrapped up into one wheeled package. He’ll never amount to anything, never contribute to society, and never raise his voice. You’re surprised he even bothers to come to these things.

No one is shocked that you ignore him, but you swear Sol shoots you a dirty look after the silence drags for a few seconds. Fef, as always, saves the day, leaning across the table to get in a better conversation range. “Yeah, that’s probably it,” she says, smiling at him. You’d never tell her in complete seriousness, but she’ll always be too good at being condescending.

The meeting starts so everyone shuts up, and it only takes fifteen minutes for it to dissolve into a fight. They’d been pretty good about not arguing lately—the disappointment was bogging them down, you guess—but now it’s back to Vantas v. Nitram, and you’re getting sort of sick of it all.

“We need something immediate,” Rufioh says. “What we did in the Burbs didn’t work because there was time for it to go wrong. The next thing we do needs to be seen straightaway, and it needs to be _loud_.”

“Which is why we’re planning a protest,” Kankri argues. “What the first event lacked was proper planning, and we’re not going to make the same mistake again.”

Rufioh balks. “With you planning it, we’ll just sit here for months!”

“The more effort we put into it,” Kankri says, “the less that can go wrong. We need to be prepared for anything, even rain.”

“Now’s a good time as any to plan an assault,” Rufioh disputes. “With that Calisa Ampora chick dead, everyone’s going to be distracted with their mindbending drug controversy, so we can really do some damage.”

 _Wait_. “You’re right that her death is something important,” Kankri concedes. “Though I don’t wish to sound apathetic, I believe that the death of an influential woman like her is enough to get people to look a little bit closer at some of the things they are being fed.”

 _What did he say before?_ “Okay, I brought this up _months_ ago, and I’ll bring it up again now: the whole buck crazies thing is just bred. You know what ‘Serenity’ is _really_ for? Mind control. There’s something in them that is causing them to act like they do, there _has_ to be.”

 _I could’ve sworn he said…_ “Rufioh, now is not the time for your conspiracy theories—”

When you finally allow yourself to comprehend what was said, your mind is no longer in the ballroom. It’s in a cold, metal room at your father’s workplace, and your hands are folded on the table. The stainless steel under your fingers and the cold chair you are sitting on are the only things in there besides you, and you make sure to show no iota of surprise when you hear your father speak.

_“You are too young for this, Eridan.”_

Even though you want to shrink back and hide from your father’s voice, you must stay firm and unyielding. “ _It’s not my fault.”_

His voice is tired. _“There is something wrong with you, something wrong with all of us. If you want to travel your proper path and be the heir to this family, that must be righted.”_

“ _Seymour_!” your mother’s voice breaks in. It’s faint in the room with you but you can tell it’s commanding wherever she truly is. “ _Stop it! He’s too young, the research isn’t complete yet—”_

 _“If you love him,”_ if you didn’t know your father, you’d say his voice was defeated, _“then you will let this happen_.”

“ _Eridan_ —”

“Eridan,” Fef’s voice, nearly silent, brushes over your skin. You’re surprised you can hear her over the roaring of blood in your ears and the static of argumentation in the background. It’s then you realize that you accidentally blankfaced whilst in your memory, so you add a bit of disdain and arrogance to your expression to make it what it normally is at its resting state. The process feels sort of strange since you haven’t dealt with purposeful emotional recall in years, but you probably need it right now.

Even though it seems like you’re in control, you see that your hand is shaking on the table, and you ball it into a fist and stare at it. You have your father’s hands for the most part, but you have slightly longer fingers because of your mother. You’re currently wearing a ring she got you for Christmas (the last one you had with her), and if Rufioh is correct, she’s dead now.

“We were just there,” you say monotonously. Your lips barely move and the sound doesn’t travel far enough for anyone but Fef to hear you. “We were just in the Burbs, and I didn’t say hello.”

You don’t really remember getting up, but before you know it you’re in the stairwell, thundering down the steps until you’re pushing the door to the parking garage open and being released into air that’s too humid and stifling. You don’t know where to go to get away from it, since back inside certainly isn’t an option. You need… you need _confirmation_ , you need solid fact, and you’re not going to go back to the apartment until you get it.

“Eridan,” Fef is suddenly beside you, “his information might’ve been wrong, we don’t really know yet—”

“I’m going to find out,” you promise, still not turning to look at her even when she puts her hand on your arm. “Go back inside, tell them that I’m not feeling well and went home if they ask.”

“No, I’m coming with you,” she insists. “Where are you—?”

“Fef,” you snap, and then suck in a deep breath through your teeth and force your voice into something less rough. “I’m going to check out some news outlets and see if they have anything to confirm,” you lie. “I’m not going to do anything hasty. Don’t worry, I’ll be home by midnight.”

Finally turning towards her, you see she looks concerned and conflicted, her eyebrows drawn together and lips parted. “I don’t think I should—”

You remove her hand from your arm and hold both of her hands in yours. “Trust me, Fef. Please let me do this.”

She thinks for too long, gnawing on her lower lip and gripping your fingers. “Okay,” she finally says. Sometimes she’s just too ready to let you face things alone. “Just don’t… Eridan, I’m so sorry this is something you have to do.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. All you can do is squeeze her hands, force yourself to let go, and start towards a district of town you’ve always been very careful to avoid on days like today.

 

* * *

 

 

A couple of months ago, you did a MfH job in the justice building, where he has an office. Getting that close to the area would’ve been a horrible move, but he only comes down here on Thursdays and Sundays (if his old schedule hasn’t changed, and knowing him it most likely hasn’t), so hopefully you’ll catch him in even though it’s ten o’clock. If not, you can leave him a message. All that matters is you talk to him, because at this point, his information is the only kind you can rely on. 

“Hello,” the security guard behind the desk greets when you step inside the unassuming brick building. “Office hours are over—”

“The Bounty Hunters Guild sent me,” you lie, face like smooth stone. “There’s a document that requires a signature from the district supervisor, and it’s private enough that we weren’t able to send it over email.”

Still looking dubious, the lady says, “Can’t you come back tomorrow, when it’s light?”

Shaking your head, you say apologetically, “It’s time sensitive.”

After a moment of hesitance, she points you in the direction of the district supervisor’s office. “Up the stairs, second door on the left. He’s been in a bad mood lately, so be careful.”

Swallowing, you nod and open one of the doors to the right. Inside is a long stairwell that zigzags to the next floor; the wooden steps have been waxed recently, and they reflect the fluorescent lights above. When you get to the office, you read his nameplate a dozen times before you can bring yourself to knock. A grunt from inside tells you to enter.

The office is spacious and cluttered, with model cars dotting shelves and old CDs scattered on every empty space. There’s an honest to god _coatrack_ to the left of the sleek brown desk. Who even _has_ one of those old things anymore? It’s iron and black and pointy, with a leather jacket hanging off one of its hooks. Your brother is leaning over a screen embedded into his desk, playing with a set of blueprints for some new model of hovercycle. “This better be pretty fucking important, I’m technically off duty.”

It’s your turn to speak, but you don’t quite know what to say. Your mouth goes dry, and as you lick your lips to wet them, Cronus looks up, piercing you with the same deep blue you remember. Initially, you don’t see any recognition in them, but something blooms when you blurt out, “Is mom really dead?”

Cronus’ fingers freeze where they were stroking the glass as he lifts his head to stare at you. Slowly, he gets up out of his chair, never breaking eye contact, and you feel like you’re locked in a room with a rabid shark that you’re trying to convince not to eat you. Finally, he releases you from his gaze, choosing instead to scan up and down your body, but you still feel like you’re his next meal. When his eyes come back up to yours, there’s something a bit more vulnerable in them that makes you think of the Cronus you left behind. “Why is there purple in your hair?” his first inquiry.

It seems he’s still confused about the difference between a _w_ and a _v_. Resisting the urge to laugh (the hysterical edge might make him think you’re mad), you say, “I asked you a question first.”

It’s weird, looking at your brother and seeing that he’s barely changed. His face has lost the last bit of baby fat, but that’s about the only difference you can discern. You, however, look entirely different: two new hair colors, glasses, some extra height, and less bulk work together to make you look like an entirely different person. You wonder what he thinks of you.

When he comes around the desk, you’re expecting him to punch you. Your jaw is clenched, waiting for the blow, but it never comes because he’s too busy wrapping his arms around you and almost crushing you. It takes you a second to return the embrace, because you’re too busy thinking about how you’re probably three inches taller than him. Your head used to come up to his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Cronus says roughly, letting you go and looking at the floor. “Yeah, she’s dead. Happened about three weeks ago, but the media’s only starting to care about it now because there’s a big deal about Serenity. They stopped production because of her, you know that? Her death exposed a lot of shit about similar mortalities and they’re saying it isn’t safe anymore.”

You know Cronus was only taking it when he felt like he needed to—which wasn’t very often—but he probably figured that since you don’t have legal access to it, you’re no longer on it. Perhaps if you’re still on his good side by the end of this conversation, you can convince him to start bringing you doses, because if anyone can get his hands on drugs, it’s your brother. Disregarding the medication talk for now, you ask, “Can I come to the funeral, or have I been disowned?”

Grimacing, Cronus shoves his hands in his pockets. “It was last week,” he tells you, “and Dad’ll take you back any time. You’re his golden boy, after all.”

Huffing a laugh, you say, “Even after I ditched him to live along the common folk?”

“He said you showed ‘ambition and drive’ when you made your own decision to do whatever the fuck you did,” Cronus says. He takes out a cigarette and runs a thumb over the top, making the head glow faintly. When he puts it to his lips and takes a drag, it turns bright blue. “But when I try to choose my own path,” smoke leaks from his lips, “it’s ‘slandering the Ampora name’. So really, why’d you go?”

Snorting as you make the decision to be flippant, you say, “The main reason I left is because Fef bet me I couldn’t survive down here for two months. I could never back down from a challenge.”

Cronus shakes his head. “The bet’s for two months, and you stay for two years. Fuck you, chief. Dad will be happy to have you home.”

 _So here’s where it might get messy,_ you think glumly _._ “…Who said I was coming home?”

Narrowing his eyes changes his demeanor in an instant, and he snaps, “You have to! You don’t belong here with thumps, or else you’ll start thinking you’re one of them.”

“Never,” you sneer, disgusted by the mere accusation, “but I have plenty of reasons to stay.”

“What?” Cronus laughs, and it’s a caustic, mocking thing. “Does Peixes have you nailed to her bed by your dick or something?”

“Stop it,” you snarl, fists clenching at your sides. “I didn’t come here so you could mock my life choices.”

“Nah,” he says with another breathless chuckle as he spreads his arms out wide. “You came to see if our dear mother was still alive and kicking, and guess what?” He leans forward, something cruel in his expression. “She’s not. So what the fuck are you going to do now?”

Clenching your teeth, you turn on your heel and stalk out of his office, never turning to look back once. Fuck his expectations, fuck Serenity, and fuck him.

The second you walk into the apartment, calmed only because Fef would be suspicious if she saw you angry, you’re accosted by comforting hands and a concerned face. She cups your cheek in her hand and wraps an arm around your back, trying to do whatever she can to show she’s there for you. “Did you..? Is she..?”

“Dead,” you say in a monotone, leaning into her touch slightly, but not moving otherwise. “It happened weeks ago. She would’ve still been alive when we were up there, but she was dead within a few days.” Closing your eyes, you huff a mirthless laugh. “I wonder if it hurt.”

“No,” Fef says, hand moving slowly up and down your back as she pulls you into a tighter hug. “No, love, don’t think about that. I… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t exactly know why, but you pull away from her. As if she senses a vibe, she kisses you on the cheek before saying, “I’ll go take a shower.” She doesn’t need to say that she wants to give you some alone time; it’s implied. You head to the bedroom and strip, changing into a pair of loose cotton pants and a T-shirt three sizes too big, and then curl up under the covers. You stare out the window for a long time, seeing the silent Belt but _wanting_ to see the Burbs.

Something doesn’t feel quite right, like she shouldn’t have died because you weren’t there to see it, like some kind of Schrödinger’s mother. _People die all the time_ , you remind yourself. Sometimes you’re even the one killing them. It’s just part of a cycle, and perhaps she’ll find peace in the nothingness that comes after life, but you can’t really imagine her ever wanting to be in a cozy position—she wanted movement, she wanted impulsivity, she wanted to be surprised. As a captain of one of the main border patrol vessels off shore, she was important, both to Canaveral and to you. When you were young, you loved going out with her and seeing nothing but the ocean and the animals that fled from the waters near the shore. It’s where you learned to walk, where you saw dolphins and sea turtles and whales, where you developed a sense of beauty.

Having her at home made living there bearable most of the time. She stood up for you when your father pushed you too hard and made ribald jokes at the dinner table and could pull on elegant airs in an instant and she was fun and compassionate and she _loved_ you. It’s strange to think that she’s not up there, waiting for you to come home; if Rufioh hadn’t said her name at the meeting tonight, you never would have known how stone-cold dead she is.

But it shouldn’t matter whether or not she’s dead or alive, right? It’s not like you ever saw her anymore, ever made the effort to sneak back up and say hello—

—except you could’ve, you were _just fucking up there_ and all you could do was stare at the penthouse and wonder; you’re supposed to be a man of action but all you will ever be is a fucking cowardly little boy.

Consumed with these sorts of thoughts, you lay on your side, knees tucked against your chest and staring out the window. No stars are visible, no lights to guide you, and you’ve never felt such a crushing lack of hope. How could she do this to you? How dare she leave you alone?

…The realization that she had _every_ right to leave you hits hard. You left her, after all.

Fef comes in, and you think she’s under the impression that you’re asleep because you start to hear her towel fall to the floor as she rummages around in the dresser for something to put on. To give her some semblance of privacy, you’re sure to keep your eyes closed and continue feigning sleep even though your chest is making little hiccupping motions with the force of your suppressed sobs. Soon, she’s sliding into her side of the bed and getting comfortable.

The bed twitches a little as your shoulders heave again, and the motion on her side stops. You bite your lip until you think you can taste blood as you try to hold it all back, with tears forming under your eyelids and sobs threatening to explode from your chest. Why is it _now_ , of all times, that you want to cry? Why didn’t you get it over with earlier to save yourself from the embarrassment? You hug yourself just tighter and beg whoever’s listening that you can just _go to sleep_ tonight, because then you’ll dream of your mother and maybe it’ll be like she’s there with you again.

God, you’re seventeen years old and you still want your mother. How fucking pathetic.

For a moment, you think that her soul has somehow read your thoughts and has returned to comfort you, but then you realize that it has to be Fef wrapping her arms around you and twining her legs with yours. Of course the former would never happen, what a stupid thing to think, you’re such a melodramatic fuckwad. “Stop trying to hold it in,” Fef whispers into your ear, because speaking in a normal tone would break the scene.

Lower lip quivering, you turn around in her embrace and remove your arms from your own torso so they can curve around her, tucking her into your chest and burying your face in her hair. “I don’t know what to do,” you reveal, and disgust wells in you because of how broken your voice sounds.

“You don’t have to know,” she assures you, “not yet. Just grieve tonight.”

Since you were very young, Fef has known just how to hold you, how to run her fingers through your hair and keep you tucked against her chin. She used to be taller than you, once upon a time, but now you surpass her in height by a little less than a head. Her forehead comes just high enough to brush your chin. You always loved that little victory, but now you’re bigger than her and it’s harder to just curl into her like you used to do.

As you cry, she lets out little shooshes and her fingertips trail down your arms and across your stomach and under your eyes to catch tears. She seems to be everywhere at once, an omnipresent force of comfort, and at times like these, you _need_ her.

“I wasn’t there,” you choke out.

Her thumb strokes the line of your jaw. “It’s not your fault.”

“She died,” you say with sudden venom, hating yourself and hating the entire world, “and I wasn’t there. What kind of pathetic sack of shit am I?”

“You had no way of knowing what was going to happen,” she reasons, kissing your forehead. You can hear the guilt in her voice, but it’s not important right now.

“I should’ve never left.”

She sighs, fingers running through your hair as a fresh wave of tears run down your cheeks, slow and thick. “I’m sorry, Eridan. I’m so sorry.”

You’re not sure how much time passes until you’re just quiet and sad and exhausted, your face red and splotchy with crusty eyes. In terms of regular boundaries, it wouldn’t be good for you to stay intertwined like this any longer than you have to, but you can’t really bring yourself to care at this point. The only thing to do from here is to fall asleep tangled in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to inquire about betaing for _Insurgency_ , please contact me at redweddingcrashers.tumblr.com and voice your interest. I'll give you further details, and if you think it's something you'd like to do, I'd be happy to have you!


	8. VIII- 137 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this chapter in unbeta'd. Yesterday, a new ficlet went up on my fanfic blog, so if you want to know anything about Vriska and Eridan's relationship before he left, you may want to give it a read. Most of the ficlets will be in third person present tense, and since I'm so used to writing second person present tense, I hope I didn't put any errant "you"s or messed up the time period. Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Narrator: Feferi
> 
> Edit: I'm so angry because I noticed before I posted the chapter that I missed a bunch of h's in Feferi's quirk so I fixed all of them, and when I just scrolled by I saw that none of them saved. Time to do it again, hopefully it'll stick this time around.

The fifteen-minute waiting period that you have to go through when you’re surfacing from a dive is the most peaceful time in your life these days. Sure, being in the ocean itself is a treat for you, but when you’re decompressing you don’t have to work—it’s just you, ten feet of water above your head, hundreds below, and any fish that happen to swim by.

Well, actually it’s more like a little bit of all that stuff mixed in with the pollution.

It’s REALLY disgusting. The water is constantly murky and life is sparse. Many of the animals that once dwelled in these waters have either swam to clean waters (which you’re not sure even exist, though it is a bit nicer once you get a hundred miles or so offshore) but down deep there are mollusks and fungi and slithery, slimy beasts that have learned, evolved, and adapted, and you _love_ those little guys! They’re so resilient, so determined to keep their homes. Some of them are kind of scary looking, but that just keeps predators away, so good for them!

As you wait, you swim around a little, careful not to let your depth fluctuate more than a foot or two, trying to find some seafaring friends. You know you’re running into some plankton but since they’re too small to see, you really didn’t get to interact with any nautical life today. It’s disappointing, but instead of continuing the futile search, you twist onto your back and float, watching the sunlight stretch through the water and filter down to you, making sure all the while you’re breathing properly.

Eventually, you watch the last couple of seconds tick by on your dive computer before letting the device go. It sinks a little bit but still floats close to your side, as it’s attached to your BCD by a thick cord. Slowly, you continue your ascent, and soon you’re breaking the surface next to the boat that took you out.

The ladder is about ten feet from your head, so you swim over there and heave yourself up. Though the scuba gear felt bulky under the water, you could move around easily, but getting out of the water makes everything heavier. When one of your fins makes a _smack_ on the boat floor, the engine starts up. You’re barely all the way in when the boat starts to accelerate.

You unbuckle your BCD and carefully slide it off, kneeling down so the oxygen tank clipped in doesn’t dent the floor when it hits. Taking your equipment apart is a tedious, methodical job that doesn’t take more than five minutes. You boot down your dive computer and take out the weights in the vest pockets before sliding it to the side, under the bench you’ve claimed as yours.

Sadly, you have to keep your gear on during the entire journey back, as you can’t remove it until you’ve taken your first shower; you’re covered in icky ocean pollutants, and the crew gives you a wide berth because of that. You know the second you leave the boat, which will be in about half an hour, they’ll be bleaching your seat.

Today you were paid to take readings on the supports of an oil platform offshore, and you didn’t have to go as far out as you usually do—sometimes, it’s a three hour ride both ways. That means you’ll get paid less, but that’s okay, seeing as it’s still a pretty decent amount.

With Eridan’s job at the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, pay is determined only by contracts. All the BHG does is make things organized, issue licenses for the sort of work they do, and perform background checks on those in their service. There are lots of lulls in business and it really isn’t the place to work if you want a steady income, so you decided to let Eridan deal with the sporadic nature of that and you got yourself a real job.

Well, you guess it isn’t all that “real” real in the sense of ten hours a day, six days a week, because it’s only two days a week so it’s just part-time. The odd jobs you take in between aren’t exactly the schoolfeed definition of “stable” either, but you like it better than shooting people. It was surprisingly easy to get a job with Commercial Diving Services when you first came down. It took them about a week to certify you and then BAM, you were in the water.

It’s not considered a desirable job by the masses, you came to find out, which is why there were willing to take you immediately. The ocean is very polluted—and you _knew_ that, you’re not _that_ retarded—but it’s so easy for things to go wrong down there and if you get to close to a certain zone you have to worry about radiation or oil spills, the boat that takes you out will leave you for dead. You’re considered to be pretty expendable for someone with a job that’s constantly hiring.

Your boat docks at the correct station, and people are on board immediately, taking your oxygen container, BCD, fins, and equipment you used to take readings as well as the tablet that contains your results. Some of your diving uniform will get washed for you, but the stuff that stays stuck to your body is your responsibility. You vault yourself over the edge of the boat and waddle to a row of outdoor showers that always run cold and rinse your uniform while it’s still on your body, trying to get off most of the grime and anything dangerous. Once you’re dripping with clean water, you head inside to the locker rooms and go into your personal stall so you can properly wash yourself.

The first thing to come off is the hood. You tug the bottom from the collar of your thick wetsuit and wring it out before hanging it on a metal bar specifically for drying your gear. The goggles are next, coming off with a _pop_ and certainly leaving a rectangular imprint around your eyes and nose. You clean the lenses with a special solution, rinse them off, and hang them on a peg near the shower nozzle. Your gloves peel off to display winkled fingers and your boots get pulled from your feet to show craggy toes. Each gets washed before being hung over the bar and pushed to the corner of the stall, respectively.

Finally, the actual wetsuit has to come off. Half the time you wear this and other times you wear a drysuit, which is better suited for deeper dives. There’s about an inch of padding all around the one you’re wearing now, adding some bulk while protecting you better than a thinner one would, and it sticks to you as you tug it off. Your hair gets caught in the zipper, as it does almost every time you put it on and take it off; you have to tuck it down into the suit, since the massive nest growing out of your head won’t fit in the hood properly.

It feels strange to feel water bouncing off your skin instead of seeping in and settling between you and the suit in that creeping way it has. The suit is designed to filter the majority of pollutants in the water so they don’t come into physical contact with your skin, so the water that warms up with your body heat is the closest it’ll ever get to clean. It takes a few minutes to wash the suit once you get it off, and soon you’re hanging it up and moving on to yourself.

You shed your tank top and shorts, letting them land near the drain with a wet _plop_. The first bottle you pick up is this special body wash that’s supposed to strengthen your skin and the next is shampoo that takes toxins from your hair. Cheap conditioner is used just because you want to. The warm water runs out quickly, and soon you’re drying off and stepping into the locker room wrapped in a ratty towel.

The place is still empty, and you’re not surprised; Commercial Diving Services only employs nine divers, and earlier your name was the only one on today’s roster. You dry yourself and wrap your hair into a large bun before putting on dry clothes and heading to the communications desk to make sure everything went right in your tablet’s data transfer.

It’s all good, and you clock out at around two o’clock, heading straight to Derse. You almost want to head home and check on Eridan—he said earlier he was going to go upstairs and see if any of the Maryams or Vantases were around for him to hang out with, but they all have jobs and you’re worried about the prospect of him being alone. His mother dying dragged up lots of guilt and regret that you can’t help but feel you’re the cause of: _you’re_ the one who convinced him to come down, the one who wanted him to stay past the two months, the one who didn’t care enough about family to check on them. You feel like you trapped him down here and kept him away from his mother, which cheated him out of a goodbye.

You rarely feel guilt this deep in your gut, but ever since the news was confirmed, you can’t really help it. He can’t even talk to his other family members because they’ll just drag him back, and what’ll you do then? Part of you wants to say he can go back, but you aren’t his jailer; he can do whatever he wants with or without your permission.

Grief isn’t something that’s defeated easily, you know, but watching Eridan move sluggishly around and do little more than watch TV and sleep is making _you_ depressed, let alone what it’s doing for _his_ mental state. You wish he were back to normal, and _woo hoo_ , there’s the guilt again, because he needs _time_ and you need to be _patient_. You need to hold him and comfort him and show him that he’s loved.

So that’s why you want to check on him, but the sensible part of your mind wins out. He knew you’d be gone all day, and the CDS building is only four blocks from Derse. You told Aradia you’d meet her this afternoon, so it’d be counterproductive to go all the way across Canaveral to check on Eridan. You’re sure he’s okay.

…As okay as he can be after this week, you guess. At least he still has a pill or two left.

Soon, you’re walking into the parking garage and taking the rickety old elevator into the main lobby of Derse. It isn’t all that busy today, since it’s the middle of the day on Thursday and almost everyone is working, but there are a few people milling around dressed in dusty suits. You don’t expect anyone but Aradia to be in _Curios and Culminates_ , and you’re almost right; while there aren’t any customers present, Damara is leaning against the counter, for once without a blunt.

“Hello,” you greet her, smiling and trying not to let your wariness show. She just arches an eyebrow, fingers drumming on the counter. “Is Aradia around?”

Damara tilts her head toward the back of the store, towards the closed door of an old walk-in closet that serves as her office, and if you listen hard, you can hear faint chatter. “Talking to her dicktoy,” she says.

You guess she means Sollux, though that’s a weird way to put it. “Thanks,” you say before heading over and letting yourself in, even if there isn’t really enough room to comfortably fit two people in the tiny space. You’re not generally one to get unnerved, but something about that woman’s stare makes you break out in goosebumps—the bad kind.

Aradia smiles when you walk in, and you can hear the hiss of Sollux’s voice through the old phone that’s caught between her ear and her shoulder. She’s scribbling down some notes on an old pad of paper, hair in disarray and eyes alight. “Yeah, got it. She just got here. Let me know if there are any problems down at the Captor Compound, okay? Yes, I have complete faith in you, shut up! I’ll switch on the earpiece you gave me when we get to the wall, talk to you then!”

She hits “end call” and places the phone on the counter before vaulting over her desk and almost running into you. Both of her hands latch onto you to steady herself, and she laughs. You can’t help but giggle a little bit, too. “Are you ready?” she asks.

“I’d be readier if you would tell me what we’re going to see,” you say with a smile.

Her expression turns somber almost instantly, and any humor that was on her face before has turned dark, though there is a spark of mischief remaining in her eyes. “I think you’re going to have to see it to believe me.”

She leaves her sister in charge of the shop, and as you leave, you see Damara reach to pull out a lighter. You figure she’s going to smoke, but you can’t get the image of her torching the place out of your head. Something mistrustful must show on your face, because Aradia comments, “She comes off rough, I know she does, but we’re actually pretty close. I trust her not to break anything… though I’m not entirely sure she won’t scare away any customers.”

With the store left in decent enough hands, you and Aradia go outside and start toward the nearest bus stop, chattering along the way about the weather and the dumb transportation systems Canaveral utilizes. There’s a monorail that runs from the main bus hub at the center of the city to each corner of the wall, where smaller transportation systems bring workers to dumps and warehouses. You have been on it a couple of times before, because bucks use it to get to the wall, even though the hub is in the Furthest Ring. They take the elevator down and a taxi service drives them to a special drop off zone specifically for bucks, and there’s a special compartment in every monorail reserved for their use. When you were on it, however, the wall was not your final destination.

The bus ride from Derse to there takes almost an hour, and you wish you had access to a car so you could just _drive_ straight there because you’re sure you’d be there by now; you wasted an hour going in the _opposite direction_. However, that’s the way it is down here, so you go from bus to monorail and get ready for the straight shot to the southern entrance to the wall.

About five minutes from the bus stop, you see a group of painters drenching a billboard in white. The first coat is already done, but you see bits of brilliant color leaking through. You nudge Aradia’s shoulder to get her attention. “Gamzee Makara’s at it again,” you murmur, lips curving upward. “I hadn’t seen any in a while.”

“You’d think someone would’ve stopped him by now,” Aradia quips, turning away from the window. “Being the archbishop’s kid can only go so far.”

Someone has to be covering for him, seeing as the public surveillance down here is so tight. Hell, if someone was listening to the audio feed from the bus right now, they could’ve heard you say his name. You wonder which one Gamzee is: clever, connected, or lucky.

The monorail is faster than buses—while the shitty boxes with wheels whip around the city averaging around forty miles per hour, the monorail reaches about a hundred. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to reach the wall. About halfway there, you see Derse about two blocks away and sigh heavily, thinking about lost time and stupid transportation restrictions.

Derse is in a district that’s considered the “outskirts” of the city, but there’s still plenty of land between there and the wall. It doesn’t go unused: these plots of land are where the dumps are, and Aradia knows the area well. There are also rows of warehouses that store “surplus” goods (you used to hear all the time in the Burbs how efficient your growing systems were, but you know there’s only extra because people down here go hungry), plus a shipyard you’d been to once or twice when you were younger with Eridan and his mother.

By the looks of it when the monorail glides past, all of the ships are in; you count all twelve in the slots along the dock, and search for any people working. You don’t see anyone, and that leaves a little lump of sadness in your stomach. Eridan’s mother did a good job running oceanic patrols, and apparently it’s been hard trying to replace her, if everything has just been _shut down_. You’d think it would risk a security breach, but since they never once found anything worrisome out there while you’ve been alive, you doubt it really matters.

You try to engage Aradia in conversation about what you’re about to do, and while she looks excited to explain, she says you have to wait. At first, you think that’s because she wants it to be a surprise, but then you realize it probably has more to do with the cameras and microphones installed in the vehicle. As you approach, you start to wonder why she’s so worried about being overheard when you’re about to do something involving Sollux doing the tech side of things; whatever you’re doing, it’s not a conventional activity.

You expect to hop right on another monorail once you get to the southern depot, but Aradia leads you away, heading down a dirt path to another section of the wall, which looms above you. It’s higher than any of the skyscrapers in Canaveral, reaching high into the sky, and you have to struggle to see the top. The wall is made from thick metal, and it’s not just for keeping invaders out: there are power plants and laboratories contained within the wall, plus it’s the hub for all military activity. Eridan’s father spends a lot of time out here.

Once you’re about half a mile away from the monorail station, Aradia perks up, and you can tell her boyfriend is speaking to her through the earpiece. “Okay, we can speak freely,” she tells you. “Sollux has put all the cameras a microphones around here on loop.”

That’s the same thing he and Mituna did when you snuck up to the Burbs almost two months ago. “He does this often, doesn’t he?” you say. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been caught.”

“He’s really good at this sort of stuff,” Aradia says, grinning. “He and Mituna rent a one room shithole down by the elevators and I like to call it the ‘Captor Compound’ because that’s like, their base of operations. They could take out the entire city, technology wise, without leaving that tiny little room.”

“Then what’s stopping them?” you ask.

“Sollux doesn’t care enough,” she replies, “and despite the suspicion I have that Mituna’s in love with Kankri, he really doesn’t care either. If anything, they’d do it to have a good laugh and point a middle finger toward the bucks, not to make a statement. Anyway, it’d take a lot of work and then they’d _definitely_ be found out, so they’d rather be free to dick around and do freelance tech work.”

“…Wait,” you say after a moment, “you think _Mituna_ is in love with _Kankri_?”

She chuckles. “In his defense, I think a lot of people are in love with Kankri. It’s only a matter of time until Rufioh is picking up babes left and right, too. There’s something about revolutionaries that makes pretty much everyone want a piece.”

“It’s really hard to imagine Kankri ‘picking up babes’,” you say wryly.

Aradia laughs, snorting hard and putting a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I would pay so much money to see that. It’s painful enough just watching him make eyes at Meulin.”

“Do you know if they ever hooked up?”

She shakes her head. “They almost did, but then someone else came into the picture, and Meulin seems to be leaning towards him lately, though I don’t see the appeal whatsoever.”

There’s something in her voice that makes it sound like she’s taking this personally. “Do you know who?”

“Kurloz fucking Makara, the archbishop’s eldest son.” Her mouth twists like she just tasted something sour. “She says he’s sweet and nice, but somehow I don’t believe it.”

It’s silent for another minute or two, until you arrive at your destination: a ladder.

“Please tell me we’re not climbing to the top of the wall,” you say, gulping. Yeah, you may be up for a good challenge, but you’re not _suicidal_.

“Yep,” Aradia says, putting one foot on the bottom rung and beginning to climb. “…I’m kidding, we’re only going about sixty feet. There’s a service shaft and we’ll be able to take an old lift to an observation deck.”

“Oh, thank the sea,” you sigh, starting to ascend behind her. She didn’t think ahead, because you can look right up her skirt. Her maroon undies are pretty nice, but you don’t really want to see them. Sollux would probably be more appreciative of the view.

Your arms ache by the time you reach the top, but the twinge goes away almost immediately. The shaft is tight, and you barely fit through single file. There are a couple of turns you have to take, Sollux directing Aradia all the while, and soon you come out in a tiny, dusty room. Sollux must’ve told her what the service elevator was, because you never would’ve guessed that the rusty box with a gate in front of it was used for actual transportation. Aradia opens the gate carefully and climbs in, waiting for you to pull yourself in next to her until she pulls a lever and the contraption lurches upward.

Now all there’s left to do is wait. Aradia tells you that it’s a ten-minute ride to the top before folding her hands behind her back and bouncing on her heels. Biting your lip, you nod before sinking into your thoughts.

You try to imagine what you’ll see when you reach the deck. Perhaps there will be palaces of stone and marble, glimmering in the setting sun. Or maybe you’ll see humble villages, looking homely compared to the raging extremes of poverty and extravagance that you see in the city. There could be glorious mountains that you’ve only seen in educational films or a stretch of endless ocean (you’ve always loved the idea of living on an island). The possibilities are endless.

These walls are keeping you caged within the city. You won’t be free until you are out of Canaveral for good, and when you get to the top of the wall, you’ll pick a speck of a separate town on the horizon, and it won’t be another city-state like Houston or Pasadena. When you get back to the apartment, you’ll tell Eridan about your plan and he’ll come with you, because you know he’d follow you anywhere. You could start over, truly reinvent yourselves without the fear of being found out stalking you constantly, and be limitlessly _happy_.

The elevator stops, and Aradia says everything is clear and ready. You’re shoving the gate open and pouncing outside before Aradia can move. Your eyes only see the door on the other end of the room, the one that Aradia told you leads to an observation deck that’s currently unoccupied. When you touch the door handle, you almost freeze up, but you are more than ready to see this new world. You twist.

At first, your eyes have to adjust a bit. The fluorescent lights of the halls were overbearingly bright compared to the dimness of the deck. The only thing worth noting in the room is the huge floor-to-ceiling window that spans the entire back wall, and without thinking you charge towards it until your breath is making small puffs on the glass.

You stare outside, waiting. You see the sun, and it’s as if someone has turned up the switch, as it shines with an almost blinding light. You wonder if you’d be able to see the stars from here—so many new worlds with more potential than this ruined one—because on a cloudless night, it’s hard to even find one in the city sky. Below, on the ground, you look for the beauty, squinting hard when just staring leads you to nothing. This doesn’t help.

It’s a wasteland.

The ground is cracked and blackened, entirely flat with no signs of wildlife or civilization. You can detect some rubble—the only evidence this land had been touched by hands that didn’t only destroy—and you’re surprised the ground isn’t smoking. Something horrible must’ve happened, something that wrecked the land, and… and…

And they let you believe you _won_.

“I…” your smile has faded, your voice rendered small. “I don’t understand.”

Aradia just stands behind you. The look in her eyes tells you that she pities you, like you’re some sort of barbarian that has been seeing things wrong and she has to teach you what’s right. Perhaps that _is_ all you are.

“Feferi,” she says softly, that benevolent quality seeping into her voice, and you already know what she’s going to say but you don’t want to hear it because you had so much _hope_ left, hope that life would prevail and you could have a future out there and what you see is _wrong_ , so _so_ wrong…

“There’s nothing _there_.” You don’t even try to hide the break in your voice.

“Yes and no,” Aradia corrects gently, gliding into place next to you. “There’s nothing _here_. It’s just Houston, Pasadena, and us. There are rumors of an underground up north, made of thick steel and indestructible bunkers, but it’s never been confirmed. But as for us… there is nothing.”

“That… that hardly matters,” you say, more to yourself than to Aradia. “We’re on such a small landmass anyway, the other cities are within an hour or two of here—”

“The continent we live on is thousands of miles across,” Aradia interrupts, voice still gentle. “There used to be millions of people, but they’re gone. They turned this country into a wasteland, and they let us think we won."

Gulping, you clench your fists to your sides and make yourself look further out the window, trying to make _anything_ out other than decay. You want to pound the glass with your fists and make the picture change, but the only thing that would accomplish is leaving fingerprints. “We… we didn’t lose, though,” you say quietly. “We won, but at price, and… I guess those who were still alive at the time wanted to keep the destruction quiet. I just can’t believe the entire world is like this.”

“It’s not,” Aradia states. “Feferi, are you even listening to me? That conflict decades ago, that war—we pissed off too many people, overstepped too many boundaries, and did a lot of things that were considered unethical in other cultures. Hell, it all was so sick even in our _own_ culture, before. We lost the war, and now we’re confined because of our ancestors’ follies. There’s a whole other world out there, Feferi.” Her eyes are shining, a bleak promise contained in them. “And this one might have to fall apart to get us there.”

Closing your eyes, you suck in a breath and force it out, but that does nothing to calm you. “I know what the results of nuclear war looks like, Aradia, and this isn’t it. I’ve seen pictures of drop sites and yeah, that wipes out a ton of the land within the blast radius and radiation travels by wind, but they don’t take out entire countries.”

Her voice is iron compared to your fragile warble. “I don’t know how they did it, and I don’t know the theory behind it all. I _do_ see what’s in front of me, and that’s destruction. I liked hearing about it, you know?” She laughs a little. “The notion of the world falling apart—and of Canaveral falling apart—was always so interesting because I wasn’t devoted to one side. Now I am because I was _forced_ to choose a side and this massive annihilation is what caused us to be left on our own to _rot_. ”

“I…” Abruptly, you take a step back from the glass and turn, looking at your feet. “ _No_ ,” you spit, and for some strange reason you feel tears gathering in your eyes. “No, they wouldn’t lie to us, not like this. History is to be learned from, not altered, and if we’re not alone, then—then that would mean—”

Your fingers reach to pinch your nose as you suck in a shuddering breath, but before you can continue, Aradia lays a hand on your shoulder. “The bucks will do anything to keep themselves in power, and that’s why we need to take them down.”

“My people are horrible,” you bite, turning on her while wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, “God, I know they are, but they wouldn’t lie to us like this. They wouldn’t cover up a nuclear wasteland out of _embarrassment_.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but then she freezes as if something is just occurring to her. “Did you just say _your_ people?”

Oh _no_. “It was a mistake,” you backpedal. Almost immediately, a sheen of sweat starts to develop on your skin, and you wish you hadn’t fought so hard to get rid of certain emotional controls. “From an equal standpoint, I consider everyone to be on the same level, so it made sense in my head.”

“Don’t you _lie_ to me,” Aradia stresses, any warmth taken from her. “You know, I wondered why I had to take you here in the first place, because almost everyone I know was whispered stories about the outside world from the day they were born, and then you and Eridan just show up, acting strangely and knowing _nothing_. I should’ve known.”

“ _Ray_ ,” you emphasize, lump in your throat growing, “Aradia, if…” You take a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll tell you everything,” you promise, “absolutely _everything_ you want to know if you just tell me how you know all of this for sure and why you had to take me here to tell me.”

She meets your gaze, and all of the earnest kindness is gone from her eyes. You miss it already. “I doubted you would believe me if I didn’t show you the carnage. _This_ ,” she sweeps her metal hand towards the outside, “is a result of arrogance, of war. It is proof of our loss, and I know this absolutely because Sollux’s grandmother is considered a traitor because she tried to tell people that we lost back when it all went down. If they were not afraid of what she had to say, they wouldn’t have locked her up.”

“I didn’t think Sollux had any family except for his brother,” you say meekly.

“Well, his grandmother was taken away when his dad was about five, and his dads disappeared when he was nine. Honestly, they’re both probably dead by now, but Gemina Captor worked in experimental tech for the duration of the war and she saw _everything_. So that’s why I know this is true,” she says with finality. “It’s just another reason to fight them. Now it’s your turn.”

You hear Aradia’s earpiece beep, and she lifts her hand to receive Sollux. “We need to go,” she says to you without sparing a glance in your direction and heads toward the door. “The guard shift is changing, he needs to take the cameras off loop.”

Gulping, you follow. Despite the relaxing start to your day, you doubt it’ll end with the same optimism.

 

* * *

 

 

“So you’re a buck,” Aradia deadpans. 

Swallowing, you nod, your fingers tangling together on the table in front of you. You’re sitting at a dinky booth at Buster’s, looking out over the Canaveral skyline and hoping desperately that no one is listening to your conversation. There’s no risk of cameras or audio recording here, as Derse is considered abandoned, even though everyone in the city knows better. “Technically, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I agree with them. I left to get away from all of that.”

“What level are you?” she asks. “Nine, ten?”

You really consider lying. This could be what ruins it all, what turns the tables and makes sure you won’t be shunned. “If you really believe in equality, it shouldn’t matter.”

“This isn’t a perfect world,” Aradia counters. You look for anything in her eyes that shows she doesn’t hate you, but you can’t find anything. Your heart sinks. “Feferi, I’ve trusted you with my demons and grievances. I want the same from you.”

Wringing your hands in your lap, you look at the table, shame welling up in you. You always thought if your actual station came out you could use it to help and become a conduit for change, but right now all you feel is disgrace. “Twelve. I’m the youngest Peixes.”

The unfazed look on her face is a construct, you can tell. Her gaze—which has remained zeroed in on you even if your own had shifted away—wavers, and you think this is where you’ll lose her. “ _Use_ that.”

“…What?”

“Feferi,” you’re startled by her sudden shift in mood; there’s fire in her eyes, and her smile lights up her face, but you can tell it isn’t entirely genuine, “I promise I won’t tell anyone while you still want to hide, but this is amazing. A _Peixes_ ,” she breathes in awe, and you can see the little girl that was star struck by a Serket and a Pyrope half a decade ago before the world tried to break her. “People will actually _listen_ to you. If you’re willing to speak with us, that is.”

Not “speak _for_ us”, “ _with”_. There’s something important in that. “I will,” you swear, “but Aradia, it’s all so complicated. Eridan and I ran away, our parents covered it up by lying about where we went, and if I just pop up in the Furthest Ring people will laugh and say I’m delusional, that I’m not really who I say I am. I’d have to go back first, to be accredited.”

You see a bit of disappointment in her expression. Contemplation fills the silence until she nods slowly. “It’s up to you what to do. I trust you’ll do the right thing in the end.”

“And you won’t tell anyone?” you implore.

“No one will hear it from me,” she promises.

“What will you ladies be having this evening?” The server must’ve crept up behind you while you were deep in conversation. You jump when he speaks and smile sheepishly before telling him your order.

In a little while, you’re heading back to Aradia’s shop to fetch Damara and lock up. The door is slightly ajar when you approach, so you figure there’s a customer or two inside. Aradia pushes her way inside and looks around as you follow slightly behind her.

There aren’t _any_ customers in the store. There isn’t _anyone_ in the store. Damara is gone.

“Where’d she go?” you ask as Aradia walks around, checking around the desk and in the storage room. It’s a quick search, as there aren’t many places in the small room to hide, and you don’t miraculously uncover her sister.

“If someone stole inventory, I’m going to be seriously pissed,” she sighs, running a hand through her hair. You look for signs of a struggle, but everything was _already_ in disarray, and you really don’t see a difference.

“Do you think she went to get a drink or something?” you inquire.

Aradia huffs, crossing her arms under her chest. “I find it hard to believe Damara just _left_. Yeah, other people would find it to be pretty in-character, but she wouldn’t do that to me.” The corners of her mouth tug down into something bitter. “You know what? I don’t even know anymore. I think I’ll head down to _Cascade_ and see if she’s drinking or playing pool.”

“Want me to come?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “It’s getting late, you need to get across the city before drunkards and gangs start running about.”

You snort, but see her logic. “Yeah, because you’re totally not about to go into a Felt bar.”

Shrugging, she says, “They won’t touch me. They know me.”

You _really_ want to ask what she means by that, but seeing as your relationship with her is tenuous at the moment with the whole holy-crap-you’re-a-buck thing, you don’t want to push. “Pester me if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, tucking her hands into the pockets of her skirt. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

About forty-five minutes later, you’re unlocking your apartment door and stepping inside. All the lights inside are off but the TV is on, so you walk over to the couch and are about to greet Eridan when you realize he’s passed out. Quietly, you fetch your tablet from where it’s hidden under your bed and join him, planting yourself on the only available sofa space: right between his stomach and the edge, as he’s curled up, his back pressed against the cushions, legs bent, head on the armrest. He stirs but doesn’t wake, and you cautiously lean back so you can feel him breathing against you as you boot up your tablet.

You sign into Pesterchum so Aradia can contact you if need be. When your tablet lets out a little _ping_ only a few minutes later, you assume it’ll be her, but it’s someone who isn’t even on your list of contacts.

GG: hey!!!

You have no idea who this is; it would be dumb of you to respond. However, the part of you Eridan always calls “careless” (you much prefer “friendly”) decides to talk to whomever this is. Maybe you’ll make a friend.

CC: )(ello! May I ask w)(o is messaging me? 38O

GG: my name is jade! im friends with

GG: well

GG: quite a few people actually!

GG: karkat, tavros, rose, kanaya…

It’s pretty much all people you know, so you think it’s safe to talk to her. You’re sure to proceed with some amount of caution; you’re not some shartpilot. (Karkat used that one last week, and you can’t help but adopt it into your own repertoire.)

CC: Nice to meet you, Jade! I’m Feferi.

GG: i know

That should be your cue to log off or block her, since something screams _buck_ and you still can’t risk anyone finding you, but before you can do anything another message pops up.

GG: wait sorry i didnt mean to be creepy!!!!

GG: karkat gave me your chumhandle because he thought you might be able to tell me some stuff about the ocean

CC: I’d love to )(elp you but somet)(ing about t)(is seems a little S)(ADY.

GG: no really i just need to know for a report

GG: since i dont live in canaveral :P

CC: Well if you don’t live )(ere, w)(ere do you LIV---E?

GG: i live in

GG: houston!

CC: Woa)( way to forget t)(e name of your own city!

CC: No wonder you need )(elp.

CC: I sort of want to go to sleep soon so )(urry up and ask away! 38)

GG: how bad is the pollution?

GG: ive heard its pretty nasty

CC: O)( don’t even get me START-ED.

CC: T)(ere is litter and debris ----EV-ERYW)(-ER--E.

CC: You can barely t)(row a rock from the beac)( wit)(out )(itting an oil barge.

CC: If you go in wit)(out protective gear you’ll probably DI-----E.

GG: jeez thats horrible!! :O

CC: I bet I’m making it sound too tame, I s)(ould put my friend on.

CC: )(e )(as LOTS of opinions about ocean pollution.

GG: um no thanks i think ill stick with you if thats okay :B

GG: so i bet its pretty much impossible to navigate them?

CC: Well, for a lot of people yea)(, seeing as the only ones allowed on t)(e ocean are patrollers.

CC: T)(ey )(ave special equipment and )(ulls t)(at are designed for t)(e messed up environment.

GG: patrols you say

GG: tell me more!

CC: Well t)(ey aren’t doing muc)( work now because t)(e woman in c)(arge of arranging t)(em died recently.

CC: But I’m sure t)(ey’ll get it all back toget)(er soon.

GG: so they arent patrolling right now?

CC: I doubt it. W)(y are you asking?

GG: for my paper!!!

GG: but ill let you go to bed now

GG: maybe ill talk to you tomorrow! thanks for your help so far!!! :)

CC: No problem, I guess. BY----E!

GG: goodbye! it was nice meeting you!!

\--gardenGnostic [GG] has stopped pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--

Huh.

You sigh, locking your tablet and leaning further back. Eridan makes a small noise in his throat that’s not quite a whimper, and there’s a slight shift in the rise and fall of his chest against your back. Turning to look at his face, you watch for any inclination that he’s waking up. His expression looks a little bit scrunched, but within a few seconds it’s smoothed back into a serene mask.

He’s so glubbing pretty in his sleep. You cannot see any grief or hate or blankness. It’s times like this that remind you no matter how infuriating he can be and how much you can hate him some moments, you’ll always love him more.

Getting up, you set your tablet on the coffee table before turning back around and bending down, trying to get your arms under him as gently as possible. Once you’ve lifted him into your arms—all six feet of him, it’s quite a feat—you carry him through the house and into the bedroom, ignoring the slight flutter of your stomach as his head lolls onto the side of your neck and nuzzles into it, seeking warmth.

You lay him carefully on top of the covers, and that’s when he blinks awake, going to rub his hand over his eyes and bumping into his glasses. Heading over to the dresser to change, you hear him chuck them onto the nightstand as if they offended him and after you find some shorts and a tank top, you step into the hallway to change and think. He’ll probably be asleep again by the time you go back in.

Even after you’re ready for bed, you don’t go into the bedroom just yet. Playing with the hem of your shirt, you wonder if you should tell him that Aradia _knows_. He told you when Porrim found out, after all. However, there’s something different about Aradia knowing; while you both trust Porrim, Aradia has always been one of _your_ friends, and Eridan is most likely distrustful of her. Exhaling quietly through your nose, you make the decision not to mention it. There’s no reason to be worried because you trust Ray, and you’re not obligated to tell him _everything_. Secrets can be kept easily if you think the other person is better off not knowing.


	9. IX- 135 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friend that proofreads for spelling/grammatical errors, Sharktopus. (She doesn't have a Tumblr or anything, so that will be her identifier.) 
> 
> PLEASE read the author's note at the bottom, there's important information.

Sunday breakfast, you think, is a universal constant that will always define the relationship between the Ampora-Peixes and the Maryam-Vantas spheres of influence, because there’s no other way you’d rather spend your mornings. While you only admit all of that in your head, Fef is always open with her excitement, and seeing her outwardly happy is one of the best things in the world, even if it’s a usual occurrence. And right now, you definitely need to be exposed to someone who’s happy.

This week, you bring egg toast—it’s your favorite breakfast item down here—and when you arrive, the only fruit they’d been rationed this week was two bananas, so those get cut up and split among you. There is, however, milk in a quantity you haven’t seen once since you left the Burbs, as the weekly allowance is a quart, if it’s a good week. The gallon sits on the bar that might as well be a pedestal because you may not be obsessed with the stuff, but you’ve always secretly preferred milk to the artificial smoothies they usually make.

You sip on your glass as everyone chats, and then you eat as everyone talks around mouthfuls of food (if you have something to contribute, you swallow first, because you’re not a fucking barbarian). The conversation stays light until Fef brings up one of the topics you’d been hoping to avoid. “They still haven’t found Damara.”

The atmosphere turns sullen quickly after that. Kankri expels a sigh as big as the expanding universe itself and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not just her. We checked up on a lot of the people we’re used to getting and if they’re around, they seem afraid to speak to us and if they’re not, their families are definitely terrified. The information we _have_ gotten, however, makes it seem likely that they’re abducting people like they did back in the Purge.” That’s a term you haven’t heard before, so you nudge Fef’s knee with yours under the table to get her attention. From the look on her face, you can tell she’s just as clueless as you are. “But that doesn’t explain why no one knows where Damara went. They try to take people while the entire family watches to inspire fear, and since not even her family knows…”

 _That_ is true. You know the damned “abduct family members, create fear” model well—part of your father’s job is overseeing those who do the taking, choosing who _gets_ taken, and deciding what should be done to them.

Kankri leans back in his chair, feet braced against the wall of the bar (you see Kanaya’s eye twitch) as he closes his eyes. “You know what? That’s all the heavy conversation we need. The rest will be discussed at the meeting tonight, I assure you.”

There’s no way to get back to civil conversation after that. It’s quiet, almost oppressively awkward, until it nears ten o’clock and Karkat turns to you. “Dude, our show’s coming on, let’s go.”

Just wanting to escape the atmosphere, you lean across the counter to put your plate in the sink, head across the room, and plop down onto the couch with Kar. He turns on the TV and takes a pillow out from under him, holding an arm around it loosely. Fef joins you as he changes to the right channel, her leg pressing against yours as she squirms to get comfortable on the ratty fabric. “It’s the season finale of your silly show, right?”

“Yeah,” you answer, pretending that you’re not wishing your leg were bare so you’d have some skin-on-skin contact. “I need to know if Mihail and Kandice stay together.”

You feel her body move as she giggles. From across the room, Porrim says, “Oh no, the poor little power couple might not survive the season! How tragic! It’s not like this is thoughtless, scripted television; it’s a way of life, apparently.”

“The season finale of _Passionate Contingence_ is not to be mocked,” Karkat snarls, subconsciously clutching his pillow closer to his chest. You can tell from the look Porrim gives him that she’s very tempted to plant her rump on top of him. He _is_ quite plush-looking. “If there’s a cliffhanger like last season I’m going to go to Pasadena and drown the writers in putrid shit.”

In your peripheral, Kankri pokes his head through the hole in the wall above the bar and narrows his eyes, but don’t comment.

Porrim taps her fingers on Kar’s bicep. “Well you and Eridan better clear out before _Runway Revenants_ starts or else I’m telling Latula that she can keep you after you organize her office tomorrow.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Her office in the Burbs?”

“Nah,” she responds, shaking her head. “She has one in the justice building that she occupies on Sundays and Mondays. Karkat is going to get paid to put some order into that disorganized shithole.”

“Could she have picked a _worse_ guy for the job?” you say incredulously.

“That office will be as spotless as the thrice licked soles of the Archbishop’s shoes by the time I’m done with it,” Kar defends himself, “so shut your shaky, vapid lips.”

You roll your eyes and sink back into the couch cushions as the _Passionate Contingence_ theme starts to play out of the TV speakers. You wonder if your lips _are_ actually shaking, and upon further inspection, you find that yeah, they still are. They’ve been trembling almost nonstop for about a week, even though you’ve been trying not to think about your mother, and no matter how many times you try to immobilize them, the second you stop focusing, they start right back up again. It’s such poppycock.

Karkat leans forward, already enraptured by the title sequence of the show, with his elbows on his knees and chin perched on his hands. His eyes, wide and dark, will most likely not look away from the screen until the finale is over.

As the episode plays out, you and Kar speak to each other in sentence fragments, seemingly unable to voice a coherent thought as the horror plays out on the screen.

“She did not just hook up with—”

“—but he’s seeing Mihail!”

“If Shawley doesn’t get stabbed I swear— _holy fucking shit_.”

“You called that. You totally did.”

“There’s fucking blood everywhere—”

“Cal and Rosalyn are making out behind the greenscreen, you can tell.”

“It was probably intentional.”

“That’s a lot of blood for one little stab wound—”

“—wait is Kandice _licking it_ oh what the cherrytitted fuck—”

It goes on. The ending _is_ a cliffhanger, you guess, but since neither you nor Kar liked the bitch that got stabbed anyway, it’s not all that important that you find out the resolution immediately. At least a bunch of people made out. (Well, that’s a normal occurrence on this show. Even more than usual, then.) The stabbing was new, but you were sort of expecting it since there’s not a lot on TV that doesn’t turn into the infamous sex-gore combo. Fef turns to you as the credits roll. “I didn’t know this show was bloody! I thought it was for mindless romantics!”

“ _Hey_!” Kar protests.

If you lie to her about what the show actually contains, you might be able to get her to watch all three seasons with you, but that probably wouldn’t be the best course of action. “I like violence just as much as the next guy, but not every show with romance in it has to have outpourings of gore with it.”

“But that’d make it so much _better_!” she argues.

“Just stick to your _Eldritch Minds_ ,” you say.

“What’s that about?” Kanaya inquires from her position in an armchair, where she’s sewing up a hole in Kar’s pants.

Fuck, it’s a Burbs show. You flounder a bit mentally, but Fef is ready with an answer. “It’s some old show that’s just on reruns now. Not a lot of people watch it.”

Kan makes a little noise in her throat to show that she heard, and Porrim comes into the room, leveling you with her famous _I will fuck you up_ stare. “Get up, it’s my turn.”

“Nope,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest just for the sake of being difficult. The show is over, and your sour mood wants to make itself known.

“You’re such a petulant little shit,” Porrim says, sighing harshly. “Oh, and by the way, your hair looks awful today.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. You used too much gel and hadn’t really blow-dried it correctly this morning. Honestly, you haven’t been in the mood to keep up with your appearance as much. “Insults won’t make me give you my spot.”

And then you’re in a headlock, with her hand violently messing up your hair. You squawk, and if you had the mind to, you could flip her and have her on the ground in less than a second, but you let her twist and plop down on the area of couch you’d previously occupied. She smirks at her victory, but as your absentmindedly run your fingers through your hair to get it back into something presentable, you read into her expression more than usual.

As the corners of her lips fall and her eyes move away from yours, there’s a flicker of something in her countenance. You’d probably be able to analyze it even if you weren’t taught from birth how to do so, because it’s so obvious.

She’s worried about you. You know you’ve been quieter lately, but you doubted anyone would notice besides Fef.

You nudge her foot with yours, and she looks back at you. For her benefit, you don’t quite _smile_ , but you make your face look a bit less dour. “I need to get going anyway,” you say. You sort of want to stick around and talk to her—you really haven’t had much Porrim time lately—but you need to get down to the justice department for a visit, and she wants to watch her show. “I’m going to see if I can get a job.”

“I’ll hang around, if that’s alright,” Fef says, leaning over to prop her head on the arm of the couch. “At least, until around one. I told Aradia I’d help her with a dump run.”

“Yeah, sure,” Porrim says. “See you later, Eridan.”

“Bye.” You lean over and give Fef a kiss on the cheek (maybe partially because of guilt, since she doesn’t know you’re lying right now) before heading to the door, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

You take the bus across town, and it takes half an hour to get to your destination. Your disdain for public transportation is infinite; back home, almost everything was within walking distance, but your family still had a car. Not a lot of people did, even up there, but it wasn’t unprecedented. Like the buses, they drove themselves so the accident rate was practically 0%, and there were less than one hundred cars on the road. Even though there’s much more ground to cover down here, the only cars you ever see belong to bucks or police officers.

There’s a line of people in the justice building, and you nod at the woman on duty. She recognizes you—she was the one on duty when you came the first time—and lets you go straight to the stairwell. Cronus’s office is easy to pick out, and you don’t hear the muffled sounds of anyone talking inside, so you walk right in without knocking.

He looks up, irritated, and pauses the movie he’s watching. “Ever hear of knocking, chief?”

You shrug and slide into one of the chairs across from his desk. They’re plastic and rickety while your brother’s is tall and leather and comfortable-looking, and you’re sure the discrepancy between the two chairs on either side of the desk is intentional. “I didn’t hear anyone in here with you, so I doubted you were up to anything important.”

Cronus puts his elbow on the desk and rests his chin in his hand almost daintily, leaning forward to wag his thick eyebrows at you. They’re darker than his blond hair, more sandy than golden, and the implication in their movement and his smirk makes you pull a face. “Not even _you_ would wank on the job.”

He shrugs. “You’ll never know until you interrupt.”

“ _Ugh_.”

The bitch has the audacity to laugh, changing positions from nearing your personal bubble to leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. Soon, the mirth in his expression fades and there’s something vulnerable in its place that he’s only ever shown to you; he’s just as good as throwing on emotions and blankfacing as the rest of the bucks, but he has never believed in hiding what he really thought from you. “I wasn’t sure you’d be coming back.”

You allow yourself to chew on your lip for a minute as you steeple your fingers on his desk and think about how you want to phrase this. In the meantime, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it with a rub of his thumb. When he exhales, you get a good whiff of the smoke, and you don’t let it show that you’ve figured out he’s taking drags of _soda_. Finally, you say, “I needed to know whether or not you told Dad about… you know…”

He can fill in the blanks. Sighing, his eyes flit to the ceiling. “Nah, I didn’t say a word to him. I wanted to talk to you again first. Y’know, see what else was going on in your life before making any choices about what to do. Now,” he smirks, “have you told your jailer about your brief moments of parole breaking?”

You grimace, drumming your fingers together. “If you talk about her like that again, I’ll leave.”

Cronus smiles around the cigarette in his mouth, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Come on, Eri, you know I’m right.”

No, you know he’s _dumb_ , with no idea of what a relationship _without_ fucking is like. Just when you open your mouth to tell him exactly what you want shoved up his anal cavity, he holds up his hands and says, “Okay, okay. I’ll back off Fef. Are you guys getting up to anything you shouldn’t be? She was always a little rabble-rousing terror back home.”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p’ and making an effort not to breathe in any of his smoke as he exhales. You hate grape cola. “We made some friends, got jobs, and it’s… alright, I guess.”

“Just be careful,” he says. “There’s shit brewing down here, and I wouldn’t want either of you to get involved.”

He knows something, you’re sure of it, but you can’t ask or else he’d suspect you. You’re sure bringing the conversation in that direction would end up with him calling your dad, so you let it go. Instead, you let him drag you into a discussion about what he’s been up to during the years you were gone, and it appears his life has been pretty static. He still plays guitar in a shoddy bar on weeknights and sells a couple of techno remixes to a small group in Houston every once in a while, and he seems content with his music but if no one’s really biting the line, you know _something_ has to be wrong with it.

After listening him drone on for what feels like an eternity, you feel like it’s about time to mention why you really came today. Your sigh cuts off his words, and you look at him from under your lashes, trying to look pitiable, because he won’t help you otherwise. “Hey Cro?”

He sucks on his lower lip for a moment, fingers absentmindedly twirling his cigarette, and finally takes the bait. “What?”

“Any breakthroughs in the whole Serenity thing?” you ask tentatively.

He purses his lips, shoulders slumping the tiniest bit as he shakes his head. “We haven’t heard anything else about what could’ve killed her, chief. Dad’s really pressuring them into drawing a conclusion fast, and they’ve got all these correlations but no causations, if you get me. I’m sorry.”

You don’t tell him that’s not what you meant. “Do you happen to…” You clear your throat awkwardly. “Have access to any?”

His eyebrows draw together like he doesn’t understand right away, but then he’s practically jumping out of his chair, hands slamming onto his desk as he leans forward to get in your face. “ _Please_ tell me you’re not implying what I think you are,” he snarls.

The building across the street looks interesting, so you look at that instead of at your brother. “I took my last dose this morning,” you reveal, cupping your elbows in your palms, “and I need more.”

“You selfish _prick_ ,” he bites, falling back down into his chair with such force you’re surprised it doesn’t break. Even the coatrack behind him rattles. “Our _mother_ —the woman you fucking _idolized_ —is _dead_ because of Serenity, and you’re still fucking _taking it_.”

Swallowing a few times, you don’t let the guilt hit you hard. “You don’t understand,” you defend, feeling frustrated. “You were never bad like me, like her, like dad. You’ve always been mellow, and yeah, you’re a raging asshole but you can _control_ yourself. I’m not—”

“Shut up!” He grits his teeth, and your wobbly fucking lips are beginning to pick up speed. “How did you even get access to it?”

“There’s a black market, but they ran out,” you explain.

“Fucking hell, kid.” He slams his fist onto his desk, jolting everything on it. “Look, if you want more, you’ll have to work it out with Dad, because I’m sure as hell not getting you any.”

Desperation is making you angry, and you quickly rub under your eyes before anything can spill over. “ _Fine_ ,” you sneer, getting up. “I guess we’ll part on shitty terms again, you bastard.”

He doesn’t try to stop you, and you slam the door as you exit his office. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall and you head over there so you can splash cool water on your face. When you no longer look like you’re about to cry, you head back into the hall. Your steps are as fast as you can make them without being hurried; you still don’t like being in the holding facility, even when Cronus knows you’re there. Something about it squicks you out.

There are still a couple of hours until the meeting tonight, and you know that Fef is out with Ara. You could go get some coffee, maybe drag Kar down…

But when you check your wallet, it’s entirely empty of any cash, and your credit card is back on your nightstand in the apartment. You suppose it’s time to go to the BHG for a job; often, your decisions to pick something up are spur of the moment, so you already have your gun tucked into a holster pocket on your pants. It’d be nice to put some bullets in someone, anyway.

You select a job from the bulletin board and bring it to Rufioh. He greets you happily enough but seems distanced from everything, like something’s befuddling him. You don’t ask because Fef will be cross if you’re late to the meeting for the purposes of killing someone and exchanging pleasantries with Ruf, so you just clip a canister to your belt, make sure your gun is easily extractable from your pocket, and download the information into your glasses.

It takes you about two hours to nab this guy. You go to the other side of the city, stalk him through store after store as he does his shopping (with money stolen from some Houstonian politician), and finally corner him in an alleyway where you shoot him. It’s a close enough range to be considered point blank, and you hate those because sometimes the blood splatter hits you, but you’re safe this time. Methodically, you remove his thumb and upload the kill information to the contactor; you can do that upon special request. You think it was probably a buck who wanted this particular batch of justice, since “politician” isn’t usually a word that’s used down here (or hell, _anywhere_ these days). Your dad said government used to be different, but you don’t know how.

“Hey, Eridan,” Rufioh greets when you walk into the collector’s office, ready to turn everything in. It seems he’s less preoccupied this time, and you can tell he wants to speak with you. “I was hoping you’d come in again before I left. Have you talked to Aradia lately?”

“No,” you tell him as you slide the canister across his desk and plop down in one of the uncomfortable chairs. “Fef’s with her now, though." 

“Have they found Damara yet?” There’s a quality to his voice that you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before. He palms the guy’s thumb and slides it into his weird microwave.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You mean they’re still looking for her, specifically? I thought they were just doing a group search at this point.”

“Yeah,” Rufioh says, “but I haven’t heard anything for a day or two. There are people going missing from all over the place, but a lot of their friends and family are too afraid to say anything because—”

“Well, ain’t this just one masterful coincidence?”

You may end up with whiplash in your neck from how fast you just turned away from Rufioh. Grinning widely with his hair pointing in every direction, Gamzee Makara is slouched in the doorway, a joint dangling from his fingers. You haven’t seen him since Cascade, and it seems he hasn’t changed a bit: same electrocuted look, same grungy clothes, same foggy expression. You’ll never get used to the absurd makeup he wears that turns his eyes and mouth into pits of darkness on his face.

“State your business,” Rufioh says, serious with a hint of bemusement that you know Gam will see. Or at least, he’d see it if he were a proper buck, and honestly you’re not sure that he doesn’t have his head stuck in the clouds right now; it’s what the joint would imply.

Shrugging languidly, he lopes into the room, mirroring your position by leaning on Rufioh’s desk. If he didn’t have the brain function of a sloth, you’d think he was mocking you. “A little bird told me that people starting to catch on to the fact that motherfuckers are up an’ disappearing, and I thought that perhaps I should tell someone who could do something, you get me?”

“I… yeah, I think so,” Rufioh says, brow furrowed. “I mean no disrespect, but who are you?”

It’s funny, you think, that he’s turning out to be the slightest bit meek when an actual buck is in the room and not on the plateau where they belong. “The name’s Gamzee Makara,” he says, nodding slightly as if to music. “I’ve met Callon right there, and it’s a nice surprise to see you again bro,” his smile widens, “but I came because I was told there was a Nitram brother working here.”

“That’s me,” Rufioh states, and if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he sounded nervous.

“Mhmm,” he says. “Yeah, you look like your bro. Tavros is sweet as can be, so I decided I’d do him a favor by doing one for you: there’s no miracle surrounding all your people going missing. Check in the obvious place and you’ll find them.”

“How can I trust your words?” Rufioh asks.

With an incline of his head towards you, he says, “Just ask Callon right there. He’ll stick up for me.” Pushing himself off the desk, he heads for the door, throwing the remnants of the blunt on the floor and tucking his oversized hands in his pockets. “Anyway, whenever God said to love your neighbor as yourself, I’m sure He didn’t mean for that kinda camaraderie to stop when you hit the edge of the Burbs. Brothers have got to watch each other’s backs, yeah?” He gives a honking laugh, eyes closing so it looks like there are two black hollows on his face with no white showing, and lopes away.

Both of you stare at the empty space in the doorway for a while after he’s gone. Forcing your voice light, you ask, “First contact with a Makara?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. Clearing his throat to make it stronger, he continues, “They’re some family. Now, what did he mean?”

Scratching the back of your neck, you say, “Remember the billboards that were getting graffitied everywhere?” Rufioh nods. “That was him. Gamzee signs his name with the same signature that is in the corners of all of the paintings. He puts the awkward smiley face thing on the tail of an A. I saw him do it on a bar tab.”

“Huh.” Rufioh stands, straightening his lapels. “You doing anything right now?”

“The meeting is in about an hour,” you remind him.

He nods, looking pensive. “We can be a little bit late. Anyway, this is something we need to do for all of them—the ones that went missing, that is. We’re going to find Damara, and we’re going to get the rest of them back.”

 

* * *

  

You swear there didn’t used to be splatters of red on the drip-painted walls of the holding facility. Seeing as you were just here a few hours ago, they must be fresh, and the tiny part of you that cares hopes it isn’t the blood of one of Kankri’s followers. Even though you’re on speaking terms with Cronus now, you still don’t like being in the same building with him when you’re with someone who has no idea who you actually are.

Rufioh walks (or swaggers, more like) to the ridiculously large ebony desk that’s placed in the middle of the room. Your eyes keep darting to each of five dark oaken doors placed throughout the room: one in the back, two on the left, and two on the right, one of which you know leads to a stairwell. You can tell that your companion wants to lean over the desk like he owns the place, but he knows that he needs to keep a respectful distance. “I’m looking for Damara Megido.”

The man behind the desk looks at him, looks at you (and you hope Rufioh didn’t notice the brief spark of recognition), and goes back to his computer. He types some stuff into his tablet and presumably brings up a list of those in holding. Eyes peeled, he scrolls through a reasonably short list of names before looking back up. “I don’t know what happened to your friend, but she’s not here.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Rufioh says, eyes narrowing and lips curling upward in anything but a cheerful gesture. “I was told she’s here, so this is where she is. What, are you holding people without even releasing their names? That’s even more corrupt than what you’ve done so far!”

“Ruf,” you warn him under your breath.

“Look, kid,” the guy cautions, “don’t cause a fuss, or there’ll be trouble. You’re certainly in the right place for it."

“And what if I want to cause a little trouble?” he says quietly, the threat clear in his voice.

The man barks a laugh, and Rufioh huffs so hard that his nose ring moves and you think you might have to tackle him to keep from punching this guy, but you’re interrupted. “Mr. Allenby, I’ll see him out.”

“Thank you, Miss Pyrope,” the man says, leaning back in his chair. You don’t think he once thought of either of you as a threat.

Looking betrayed, Rufioh glares at the newcomer but follows her nonetheless. You trail behind them, and they exit slightly ahead of you, giving the man at the desk an opportunity to call softly, “Aren’t you Mr. Ampora’s friend?”

Turning sharply, you pull on your deadliest glare and make a cutting motion across your neck, your lips contorting into a sneer and a promise for violence in your eyes. The man looks away, cowed, and you immediately put on something more neutral before Rufioh or Latula can see. You make sure the door is shut securely after you exit.

“What the fuck, Latula?” Rufioh snaps, spinning on her. He’s leaning forward, fists clenched at his sides, and you can practically see the steam coming from his ears. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you _think_ , Rufioh?” she questions, sounding irritated. The young woman is entirely unfazed, cocking a hip out and crossing her arms across her chest. “You know what my family does.”

Gritting his teeth, he bites, “You’re fucking with innocent people now.”

“Guys,” you warn. When they both look at you, your eyes flit to a nearby security camera. It can hear everything you’re saying.

Latula sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose with her middle finger. “I’m sorry it’s turning out like this. They’re not getting hurt.”

“I bet they’re already all in labor camps,” he accuses.

Shaking her head, Latula lowers her voice. “No, they’re all still in there, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll make sure you don’t do anything to make anyone suspect you.” Turning on her heel, she stalks down the street. Right now, she’s so much different from the laidback girl that comes to the meetings to get a little tipsy and make grabs at Porrim’s boobs. “See you in a few.”

Rufioh crosses his arms over his chest, staring down at the sidewalk and looking resigned. Finally he sighs, gaze turning up to meet yours. “So Latula won’t tell us much,” he says. “Fine. I know who will. Still willing to be late?”

“Yeah,” you say. You’re in this far, so you might as well stick around, even though Fef will certainly chastise you. If Ruf wants to pull something big for this, you want a part in it. You’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be in the limelight, and you crave it to your core.

“Then let’s go.”

You take the bus, and it feels like you’re heading towards Derse for the meeting, but he gets off two stops before. Just three stores down from the bus stop is a 24-hour computer café, and he heads straight in, sits down at a computer, and digs up some bills to feed in the machine hooked up to the monitor. You notice that he pays a little bit extra for webcam usage.

The cubicle is private and there’s not enough room for two at the desk, but you’re not going to just _stand_ there so you reach to the station next to you and grab an unoccupied chair to plop down in. You almost want to tell Rufioh to get out of the fucking way so you can be in front of the computer, but you don’t know who he’s calling, and that would turn awkward fast.

Soon, he’s logging into Pesterchum and is clicking a cobalt blue name and selecting the video chat option. You scoot your chair over so it’s out of the frame before a pristine image appears on the computer’s screen. Rufioh’s grainy effigy at the bottom of the video chat window pales in comparison to the superior graphics of this guy’s webcam.

It takes you a second to put a finger on whom Rufioh called. The young man is large and of mixed race (you’d say black and Hispanic, if you had to guess) and he has lab safety goggles shoved onto his forehead, pushing back messy dark strands of hair and exposing blue eyes so bright that you know they’re engineered. “Rufioh,” he says with a smile. You can tell immediately that this guy has a _cru_ - _ush_. “I did not know you had time for me tonight. You caught me in the middle of a project, but I can spare a moment.”

“Hi, Horuss,” Rufioh greets, sounding the barest bit tired. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t a social call.”

“Oh,” he says, long face wilting as your mind puts together _Horuss Zahhak_. You always heard the older brother was more mild mannered than Equius; from what you can tell so far, even his tone is less abrasive. “Well, how can I help?”

Dropping his voice and turning down the volume, Rufioh waggles his eyebrows twice, looking a bit nervous.

Understanding lights in Horuss’s eyes, and you can tell when he brings up another window on his computer and fiddles with it. Soon, he nods once. “We’re not being recorded.”

“Good,” Rufioh sighs, leaning closer to the screen. “Now Horuss, you were supposed to warn me when people started catching on.”

His shoulders droop, and it looks so strange to see a man of his size take on the appearance of a kicked puppy. “I know,” he says quietly. “In my defense, I only just heard of it yesterday. I suppose you want to know what’s being done.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Rufioh implores.

“Well,” he begins, “according to my father, people in a special sector of the police are being sent to suspect’s homes in the middle of the night. It’s a fear thing, you see—take away a family member, quell any resistance. They know that their loved one will stay safe if they mold themselves into upstanding citizens, and if they don’t…” He swallows. “The one that was taken will become an example. Now, they haven’t been taken to the labor camps yet,” Horuss adds. “They’ll still be in holding until the proper paperwork is processed, and they should begin transferring by the end of next week.”

The “special sector” of cops is the Angels, you’re absolutely positive.

“Are they making educated guesses?” Rufioh asks. “Or are they just choosing people at random?”

“If you are asking whether or not they know of your involvement or Kankri’s,” Horuss’s voice has dropped to a whisper, even though no one could be eavesdropping on you, “they are ignorant of that for now. Rufioh,” there’s a clatter from another part of the room he’s in, and his eyes flit towards the ruckus, “be careful.”

Then he’s gone.

Seething, Rufioh logs out and shuts down. You walk with him out of the shop, a shadow by his side that makes sure that he doesn’t run over any harmless pedestrians (though that would be comedic), until you complete the ten or so minute walk to Derse. You hoped he’d be calmed down by the time he pushed open the grand doors to the ballroom at the old hotel, but if anything he’s even more indignant.

Everything seems to stop when you enter. People turn to look at you as you pass through, and something petty and bitter curls in your stomach when you notice that they’re only paying attention to _him_ and not you. The crowd parts as you head towards the main table, where Kankri is speaking unhindered.

“I know where everyone is going,” Rufioh proclaims, cutting off his friend’s rant.

Irked, Kankri says, “I was in the middle of something—”

“The police are taking them,” he interrupts loudly, using the hush over the room to his advantage. “They’re being forcibly removed from their homes in the middle of the night to scare their families into compliance, and it’s all people that are suspected dissenters. People like _us_! All of us are in danger, and you’d rather talk about bread prices!”

“Well,” Kankri fights, flustered, “this is a new development. Do you have actual proof, or are you just trying to rile things up as usual?" 

“I talked to Horuss,” Rufioh says, and you swear you see Latula curse under her breath. “He knows what’s going on. People that we know—Wayland, Persephone, _Damara_ —are being held in captivity because of their associations here. Back me up, Latula.”

“It’s true,” she sighs, crossing her legs. “I kept _saying_ that you all needed to be more careful—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kankri whirls on Latula.

Lips pursed, she says, “I have my reasons.”

Huffing, Kankri turns back on Rufioh. The room is beginning to dissolve into discontented murmurs, and you hear the door open. “I don’t think there’s a question anymore about when we’re going to take action,” you find yourself saying. “We need to do something by the end of the week.”

“What, break in to the holding facility and bust all of them out?” Kankri questions.

“ _Yes_!” Rufioh cries. “You need to protect these people that are only in danger because of you!”

Shaking his head with guilt in his eyes, Kankri says, “What happens, then, once we bust them out? Will we take to the streets and demand the Burbs be razed? Will we wave around their prisoners and expect not to be thrown into a labor camp ourselves? Are you really so _naïve_ ,” he snarls, last shred of composure breaking, “that you believe that it will be so easy as to break in, take them, and get out?”

“We have to try!” Aradia says from your usual table, standing. “If what Rufioh says is correct, they have my sister. I can’t just… _leave_ her to them! She’s rebellious; they’ll shoot her in the head before she can even make it to a camp.”

“It’s our responsibility,” Rufioh declares, standing up even taller. “They supported us, and this is how you wish to repay them? By tearing them from their families and sending them away?”

“ _No_ ,” Kankri says, voice breaking. “Of course not.”

“But there’s not much sense in getting ourselves arrested with them,” Mituna pipes up. “That means there’ll be even less people to fight, when the time comes.”

“That’s my point!” Rufioh exclaims. “There are less people _now_. We can’t wait any longer! _It’s time_.”

“Eridan,” Kankri appeals to you where you’re still standing, right beside Rufioh, and something in your stomach lurches, “you’re reasonable. You say you know so much about the bucks’ system, so you know this could never work.”

Swallowing, you say, “I _do_ know about how it works, and that’s why we need to get them out.” Maybe you’re just caught in the moment, because you truly don’t have a compassionate bone in your body, but _you_ have to convince them. “Labor camps are structured so people are worked to points of exhaustion and degradation. Without them, we would not have power, food, or even a world to live in, but there are better systems to achieve these goals, because there is a phase between the facility and the camp called interrogation and assimilation.” _You’re saying too much_. “I’ve never really heard about it down here, but I guess they just keep it quiet. They get into your head, find any answers that they’re looking for through a fucked up session of mind rape, and then strip you of any ideas of identity. You come out of I &A not knowing who you are, where you came from, or what you’re leaving behind. You’re just a worker drone, and there’s no recovering from that. When they go,” you finish, “when they’re taken into the metal plateau, even if we _do_ manage to usurp the system, these people will be gone.”

Uproar.

“We never knew—”

“How much have they been hiding from us?”

“My partner was taken years ago, are you telling me that she—”

“—they’d do that to all of us in a heartbeat!”

“How does this kid know all this stuff?”

“We need to free them!” You hear Fef’s voice above it all, high and reedy. “No one should ever have to exist in that state!”

“Quiet,” Kankri tries to calm everyone down, but even he can’t silence them now. You see tears in his eyes. “I know this is all very horrible, but please—”

“Tomorrow!” Rufioh yells, his voice travelling across the room. He’s climbed onto the main table, and he’s kicked over a glass of water and scattered papers on the way up. “At noon! We will get them back! Tell everyone! Tomorrow is when it starts, and tomorrow we will teach them not to underestimate us anymore!”

“What about peace?” Kankri tries to reason, frustration making him sneer. “I hurt for them, don’t think that I’m apathetic, but they’re just going to take all of us down and fucking slaughter us like _animals_.” His voice breaks.

“Kankri,” Porrim says quietly, “we have to.”

There’s someone tugging at your hand in the chaos, pulling you towards the door. “Come on,” Fef says, heart in her throat. “Let’s go.”

But you can’t go, because another hand is on your shoulder, yanking you back and suddenly you’re face to face with Latula Pyrope. “How did you know about I&A?” she demands.

“That’s none of your fucking business,” you respond, trying to be calm, but she’s a Pyrope and she’s calculating, squinting at you and curling her fingers tighter in the fabric of your shirt. You yank your shoulder back and she takes a step, still firm until her eyes blow wide, eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

You let go of Fef and swoop in close to Latula’s face so no one else can hear you. “Don’t tell,” you hiss. “Don’t you dare tell a _soul_ , Pyrope, because I’ve never had an ill intention about Vantas or any of them and if they find out, I know to blame you, and that won’t end well.”

Fef gets a better hold on your wrist and forcibly pulls you; Latula’s fingers uncurl from the fabric of your shirt as she watches you go, still stunned. Your Fef takes you out of the room and down the hallway to get away from all the watching eyes, like those of Latula fucking Pyrope and anyone else who may now suspect you’re not telling them everything you know. Once you’ve stopped, she pulls you onto the floor so you’re sitting with her, and she places her forehead onto yours. “You blankfaced,” she breathes, “in front of everyone.”

So that’s why it was suddenly so hard to do anything but listen, before Latula broke you out of it. You gulp, taking Fef’s hand and breathing though your nose. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think anyone noticed,” she says, “but it worried me. I had to get you out.”

That seems to be a common theme.

“I’m fine, Fef,” you say, but you still feel disconnected from yourself. “Will you stay away tomorrow?”

“Never,” she proclaims. Pulling back, she takes your hands instead, squeezing lightly. “This is the first step towards change, of course I have to be there.”

“It could go wrong.”

“It could go _horribly_ wrong,” she corrects you. “That’s the risk, but it’ll be worth it. What did Latula say to you?”

You think she already knows, but you lie anyway because she’ll try to make herself believe it if only to soothe her own panicked thoughts. “She just wanted to know about how I knew all that stuff about I&A. Don’t worry, she doesn’t suspect a thing.”

She doesn’t try to finagle the truth out of you. You go home after that, ears ringing and thoughts jumbled. Even though you helped start this, you don’t know what to think about what’s going to happen. Cronus will be in the Burbs tomorrow so you don’t have to fret over him getting hurt (not that you would anyway) but important people could see you, they could find you and take you back. You… you don’t know what you want, not anymore.

And that—more than Serenity, more than your mother’s death, more than being exposed—is what makes you feel afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By May 24th, Act 1 will come to a close. Currently, the chapter is 13,000 words, and the timing of this chapter's release worked out perfectly.
> 
> Why?
> 
> Because the Homestuck Shipping World Cup is about to begin, and I am the friendleader of Team Eridan<>Feferi. Now, do you like EriFef? I would assume you do, because you're reading this fic. Currently, we need two more team members to be able to participate, and we have a week to get those two people. For that, I need your help.
> 
> All of the information you need can be found [here](http://autumnfox.akrasiac.org/hswcrules), and even if you don't want to sign up, please signal boost our team ads, located [here](http://redweddingcrashers.tumblr.com/post/82228666160/sign-up-here) and [here](http://wtfeveridgaf.tumblr.com/post/82516479025/hswc-2014). I hate to bother you all with this, but we don't have much time. Thank you for your assistance!


	10. X- 134 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks--the Act 1 finale. I hope it doesn't disappoint.
> 
> Just a note about the POV: it alternates. It starts out with Feferi, and then after the break, it switches to Eridan, and then after the next break it goes back to Fef. After every page break, there is a POV switch and every act finale (this is the first of three) will have alternating POV. Every intermission will be from someone new's POV (there will be two intermissions, each sandwiched between the acts). This monster of a fic is far from over; Act 2 will be the longest, and Act 3 will be the shortest.
> 
> Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

You’re awake when someone knocks on the door, because you slept for _maybe_ one of the past twenty-four hours. Eridan didn’t sleep well either, you know, since he was tossing and turning the entire night. That’s why you both get up at the exact same time, make eye contact, and get stuck at an impasse.

“I’ll get it,” you tell him. Smirking slightly, you imitate his snooty accent. “My bedhead may look like I stuck a raincloud on my head but you have an _image_ to uphold.”

He huffs, “Oh, shut up,” and flops back onto the bed. You pull on a bra while keeping your tank top in place, straighten your shorts, and go to get the door.

When you open it, the first thing you say to the man standing on your doorstep is, “You can’t talk me out of anything.”

Kankri is staring at you from outside your apartment, colossal bags under his eyes and corners of his mouth turned down slightly. He shakes his head slowly, blinking. “No, Feferi. I want you to convince _me_.”

Taken aback, you ask, “To help?”

“To help,” he affirms. He wrings his hands in front of him and sighs. “Sell it so I can’t say no.”

Still slightly confused, you say, “Remember what Eridan said yesterday at the meeting? About I&A?” He nods. “Trust me. It’s bad, and it’s only a matter of time until they come to your doorstep and take you or Karkat or Porrim or Kanaya away. Even if you’re not worried about yourself, don’t you want to protect them?”

He swallows, hands burrowing deeper into his pockets. “You managed to convince me rather quickly,” he forces out a laugh. “You’re a very persuasive girl.”

They say that your mother’s best power is that of persuasion.

“Please never say that about me again,” you say calmly. “Would you like to come in?”

Shaking his head, he steps back from the threshold. “I need to talk to Mituna. We’ll need the Captors, and it’s best that they begin setting up as soon as possible.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Why did you want _me_ to convince you?”

His hands continue to twist together in front of him. “Rufioh said last night that I needed to protect the people that I put in danger.” Right now more than ever, he isn’t Kankri Vantas, the loud advocate for every right under the sun; he sounds like a lost little boy. “He was undoubtedly correct. I came to talk to you specifically because I value your opinion.” Bashfully, he says, “Before you started coming to the meetings, I took some of the things you were saying at breakfast and used them when I needed a point. Though our views don’t always align perfectly and you have some… strange opinions, you’ve been a valuable asset and friend, whether you knew it or not. You…” he looks at the ground. “You remind me of myself. Well,” a nervous laugh spurts out of him, “the good parts, anyway.” He sobers in an instant, his eyes boring into yours. One of Kankri’s best assets is his intensity. “Feferi, be _careful_.”

Oddly touched, you nod. “Yeah, you too.” He hesitates before stepping forward, and when you smile your permission, he hugs you. His sweater smells musty and his grip is tight but in less than a second, he’s letting go and heading towards the stairwell.

You’re surprised they didn’t crush him while he was in the Burbs.

 

* * *

 

The fact that Fef has you calling this shithole the “Captor Compound” leaves a dirty taste in your mouth, even if you haven’t said it out loud. It’s cutesy, alliterative, and disgustingly catchy, making it sound like some cutesy clubhouse where the two annoying brothers play with action figures and paint each other’s nails. However, when you enter the room they rent out a mere block away from the elevators, what you find is a tiny room with two chairs, two desks, and six computer monitors, with mainframes stacked behind each and some coding books that look like they haven’t been touched in years laying on top of them.

Mituna and Sol are each in a chair, both dealing with their own sets of monitors and keyboards. The older brother is reclining, one leg pulled up near his chest while the other extends across the empty space under the two rickety desks to prop itself on his brother’s chair. Sollux is hunched forward, eyes intently scanning the screen as he works.

Thinking of the packed rooms filled with top of the line equipment and the best computer engineers in the Burbs, you question, “You expect to take down all of the security in the holding facility and the surrounding streets with _this_ sparse sprinkling of shit?”

They don’t even pause to look at you. “Look, Actium,” Sol says, “we’re sort of fucking busy at the moment. If you let us get everything into place without further disturbances, this will be a piece of fucking cake. If you want to help for once,” he lifts a hand away from the keyboard to point at the door, “that’s the most helpful direction you can go in. Keep going until you hit an underwater trench.”

You flinch at every lisped syllable as Kankri, Porrim, Karkat, and Kanaya try to squish into the room behind you. Fef, of course, was the first one in. It’s an incredibly tight fit, and Kanaya can barely manage to close the door behind her. The three sibling pairs will be crammed into this tiny space for the next few hours, and you’re relieved to not be stuck in here with them. Normally, your retaliation towards Sol would be something nasty (you had a really good comeback picked out), but you promised Fef you’d be civil today, so you hold your tongue. Hopefully she won’t count your words earlier as a slip or else you might have to sleep on the couch tonight.

“So what do you want us to tell Rufioh?” you ask.

“Not to be a stupid sphincter jockey and actually _think things through_ before he does something,” Karkat says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“If tons of people show up, make sure they’re all _outside_ ,” Porrim says. “Not a lot of people should go into the building. If anything, he should have them all block the doors or something, but if the police start threatening violence—which will happen, I’m sure—tell him to get them the fuck out of the way.”

“Speaking of going into buildings,” Mituna pipes up, “you’re in first, Eridan.”

“ _What_?” you say as Fef questions, “ _Him_?”

Shrugging, the asshole says, “You claim to know a lot about security, so you’ll clear a pathway for us to click the metaphorical button and get the equipment on loop. We’d be able to do it without you, but it’s riskier, so we thought we might as well use what we have.”

“Being prudent for once, are we?” Kankri says, and it might be teasing, but it’s hard to tell with him.

Mit probably rolled his eyes, but you can’t see past his weird computer lenses. “Whatever. Can you do it?”

“Yeah,” you say with a curt nod. “Easily.”

“Feferi, you can stay outside with the protesters,” Kankri says. “I really think you’d—”

“No!”

He blinks at her sudden exclamation. “Um… I’m sorry, but I thought you would—”

“Nope, I’m going in,” she declares. “I’m getting people out of there. There’s no way I’m just going to stand outside while there are—”

“Okay, okay,” Kankri relents, “you can go in with Aradia. She’s got the first, second, and fourth underground floors to cover, so I’m sure she’d appreciate your help.”

Fef almost looks smug, and something about that expression screams _entitled brat_. Only you seem to catch it, though, and to you it’s more adorable than anything else. “Good!”

“That’s actually more convenient,” Sollux says. He looks away from his computer for the first time to reach down under his desk and into a bag, pulling out some plastic cards. “We had the codes for the doors copied onto these, you can hand them out.”

Fef takes them, grinning eagerly. One corner of your mouth tugs up the slightest bit. “So what happens when the people are released?” you ask. “The cops will still know who was there, if they do manage to get away.”

“We’ll wipe the records, so they’ll no longer have the lists of people they detained nor the watchlist,” Mituna says as a dissonant tone comes from his speakers. He curses and smacks the monitor a couple of times until the painful noise stops. “Anyway, they’ll have to start looking for people from scratch. We’ll be funneling those taken into sewer system. And I know,” he snaps before you can say anything, “that there are cameras and stuff down there too. We’re handling it.”

“If they know you’re going down there, they’ll have all the manholes covered,” Fef says as you open your mouth.

“Which is why we’ll be taking them up through one that isn’t on their radar,” Mit says. “Latula knows the way, she’s already stationed down there.”

You snort. “She doesn’t tell you about any of this and you still think you can trust her?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mituna replies, and there’s something in his tone that makes you think he wants to strangle you for that comment. Maybe because his _yes_ autocorrects to _yeth_ in your mind. Horrible teeth must be genetic. “You don’t fucking understand—”

Kankri puts a hand on the bit of skin exposed between Mituna’s neck and shoulder, and the latter man falls quiet. Huffing a breath out of his nose, he mutters something under his breath and goes back to typing.

Well _someone_ wants to bone a Pyrope, and it’s not you. It’d be too pointy to be pleasurable.

“We sent her down early so she’d smell the shit for hours as penance,” Porrim says. “She’ll never smell anything else ever again.”

“Solemn,” you quip.

You go over a few more last minute things, making sure everything is in order and mentally preparing for the day ahead. Fef gets rather chatty and you let her talk because that’s how she helps get rid of nervousness. Soon, noon is half an hour away and you’re being sent off.

“I’ll be out there for a little while, but not the entire time,” Kankri says. “Watch your backs closely, and if it all goes to hell, _run_. I want you two out of there. Okay?”

“Yeah,” you say while Fef does nothing, and you squeeze out of the room and into the hall.

The tiny apartment complex is only three blocks from the justice building, so you and Fef walk. It’s a cloudy day so no one will be getting sunburnt, but it’s not the sort of cover that signals incoming rain. At some point within the first block, your hand brushes past Fef’s, and one of you makes the decision to grab on. She’s being strangely tightlipped this morning, and that worries you.

“Be careful, Fef,” you say quietly.

“You too,” she says, her voice equally soft. She squeezes your hand and you return the gesture, trying to figure out something else to say but coming up practically empty.

“Do you have the thing I gave you back at our apartment?” you ask.

“Strapped to my ankle,” she affirms. That makes you feel a little bit better—she may need a knife in the coming hours, and even if it turns out she doesn’t, it’s better to be prepared than trapped weaponless.

There are already more people than usual near the holding facility. If you were just some random passerby, you doubt you’d detect the subtle electricity in the air or how many of the people seem to be waiting for something, eyes darting around and movements sharper than normal. You spot Rufioh and Aradia but don’t approach, choosing to hang back with Fef for another minute. Soon, she’ll go over to them and give Ruf the keycards while saving one for herself and Aradia; you already have yours tucked away in your pocket. You squeeze her hand one more time, because a real goodbye would be too final, and head towards the building.

“The district supervisor isn’t in today,” says the woman at the desk as soon as you open the main door. You hoped it would be her, because you knew she’d recognize you immediately and it’d create much less of a recorded scene.

“Oh, I know,” you respond, flashing her a winning smile. “He asked me to fetch some, ah…” You pull on a bright blush, making sure you heat up to the tips of your ears and turning your tone a bit sheepish. “He wanted me to get a little something he forgot in his office, because we have a date later, and…”

“Say no more,” she says, waving you up like she’s familiar with the amount of whoring around your brother does. You nod meekly and scurry towards the stairwell.

You shake everything off once you close the door to the stairs behind you, feeling gross after the insinuation that you’d be fucking your brother later. “What the hell was that?” Sollux says from your earpiece.

“Acting,” you reply, and he snorts as you reach the top of the stairs.

The hallway isn’t empty. Someone is at the very end of the corridor, and they notice you immediately.

You pull your pistol before you can think, aiming at whoever it is, but some instinct tells you not to shoot. “That’s a nice gun,” a raspy female voice quips, filling the air between you. A jolt of ice shoots down your spine as your eyes focus on her. She walks forward, and you pray to whoever’s listening that it’s _not_ her.

But it _is_.

Fuck. Your. Life.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a riot. It’s not a revolution. It’s a rite of passage for the movement.

People show up. They’re unsure and nervous and angry, but they appear, and that’s the important thing. If Rufioh were someone with a buck mentality, he would have riled them up and released them on the holding facility while he sat back and watched the carnage that was sure to follow, with cries of justice on both ends, but that is not what he does. That is not what Kankri does. They lead not by fear and manipulation, but by being a voice for the people.

The street is packed by noon, the entire block filled by warm bodies of people willing to protest. Word spread fast last night, and by your estimates, there are five hundred people crowded around the holding facility. More will see what is going on and join, you are sure. You hope rain doesn’t ruin it like it did the first real action the group took, but puffy white clouds in the sky don’t imply rain.

You can tell there are others watching you. It _is_ a suspicious gathering, and honestly, you’d be worried for the safety of the Furthest Ring if the people above _hadn’t_ noticed something was up. Hopefully you’ll have some time before others with ill intentions come to investigate.

Rufioh has distributed all of the keycards, and he’s been busy speaking to all sorts of people and telling them to hold on for a little while. What he _can’t_ say is that they will be a distraction while you sneak around the back. If something breaks out before you all get inside, you’re sure they’ll place a guard on the back door and it’ll be harder to get in.

But people are getting antsy, and Rufioh just wants to get into the building—he doesn’t really want to deal with leading all of these people in an actual protest. It’s not his area of expertise by any means. What he wants to do is get in, get people, get out, and relish in his victory. You doubt it will be that simple. Nothing ever is.

There are two ways you think it could go, and both involve people getting sick of milling around and waiting for something to happen. In the first, they will awkwardly stand here for a while before heading home to sleazy apartments and return to their lives like nothing happened. In the second, the pent up rage and aggression will spill over, and there won’t be any control. Mob mentality is actually pretty easy to predict, so you believe that if even one person decides to throw a rock at a window or scream something like _“death to the bucks”,_ there will be pandemonium. If one person goes over the edge, they all will.

Which is why they will need strong leadership that Rufioh won’t be there to provide.

“How’s Eridan?” you ask Karkat through your earpiece.

It takes a second for him to answer. “He’s right outside of the surveillance room, but we’ve lost audio. You can probably enter the building in about five minutes.”

“When is Kankri coming out?”

Snorting, Karkat says, “I don’t know if he is at all, he’s acting like he’ll just make it all worse or something. _Yeah_ , I’m talking about you.” You doubt that was directed towards you.

“Let me talk to him before we go in,” you request.

There’s rustling as Karkat hands off his earpiece to his brother. You wonder why he didn’t have one in the first place, but you guess there weren’t enough to go around and with Karkat assisting Sollux with tech-to-ground relations, the younger brother needed it more. “You wished to speak to me?” Kankri says.

“When Eridan and I first met you at the hospital, do you remember what you said to us?” you ask immediately.

He pauses, seemingly stumped. “I said a lot of things, most of them pertaining to optimum eyeball pH level.”

You think he was trying to be funny, but there’s no time for that. “You told us ‘We will never turn anyone away,’” you remind him. “You weren’t talking about this at the time, but I think you could’ve been. You’ve never been one for turning your back on people, Kankri, so why are you doing that now?”

Kankri lets loose a sigh that probably rattled the computer monitors in the Captor Compound. “I’m not a figurehead, Feferi. I’m just _loud,_ when it is opportune to be. I… I was never meant to be a leader to these people. They each need to take control of their own destinies and make decisions on their own; they’ll even each other out and turn our world into something everyone can enjoy. If it’s just me taking charge of _everything_ , what’s keeping it from becoming a dictatorship?”

“Two months ago, you wouldn’t believe what you’re saying, Kankri,” you sigh, running you fingers through your hair. “Kankri Vantas used to be the sort of person that wanted to lead, because he knew that he had a combination of experience and ideals that could bring about a better tomorrow. These people need leadership,” you say firmly, “and since the only leader-type here is about to go inside, you or Porrim needs to come down and put some organization into this.”

“Rufioh isn’t the only leader down there,” Kankri protests.

“Yes he is!” you insist. “That’s why you—”

“You could do it, if you’re so determined that they need to have a leader. Honestly, I’m still not convinced,” he says.

For a moment, you let yourself picture it. Back in the Burbs, you always fancied yourself a leader: you’d get a seat on the Council and boot your mother out and create a better world. But that was when you were naïve and helpless. You know so much more now. Maybe you _could_ become a leader in this.

Then you remember who you actually are and realize that is not your place.

“I know where I’m needed,” you tell him, “and I know where you’re needed. You wanted me to convince you to get involved earlier, and now I’ll convince you further. These people believe in the world you see, Kankri. They’re here because they want to live in a place where they’re not treated like trash, and you’re the one that made them envision that future. You made them want to plan, want to _act_ , instead of just sitting around and railing about it to their friends without actually _doing_ anything. Now, some of those people are in there,” you throw out an arm towards the justice building even though he can’t see you, “and they deserve more than what you are giving them. And I don’t _care_ if you’re afraid for you or for your family,” you know that is what this man fears the most and any hesitation to move most likely comes from that primal fear of _separation_ , “but these people are relying on you and you’re _turning them away_!”

There are people staring at you, and Aradia’s hand is tight on your shoulder. Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself and wait for his reply.

It never comes. Instead, you get Karkat. “I don’t know what you just fucking said,” he states, “but he just left. And there goes Porrim. Hey, Mituna, are you going to join them? Oh right, you almost never leave this fucking cave—”

“We’re ready,” Aradia tells you, tugging you with her. While you were wrapped up in conversation with disembodied voices, Rufioh gathered his people and started issuing final orders. You and Aradia join him as he and his small pack start down the road, away from the building, and turn right at the next block. You make another right after that and follow the street around so eventually, you come to a building that backs up to the holding facility. There’s an alley that takes you to the door you need to access, and there are cameras watching you every step of the way; Sollux has assured you that they are on loop and the only audio and video being submitted is being filtered through their systems before going to the Burbs, clean and clear of any suspicious activity.

Rufioh’s keycard works seamlessly. The lock springs open, saying that a fingerprint scan has been done and approved before he’s even touched the handle. Him and his three goons are the first inside, and Aradia follows right behind them. Just as you’re about to go through, a streak of movement catches your eye. You whip around, looking everywhere but seeing nothing. A strange feeling settles onto your shoulders, because you know what that means: the Burbs have sent their little sentries to scope out the situation. Gulping, you step inside and shut the door firmly behind you.

“Did you see something?” Aradia asks when you join the rest of the group. You’ll split up momentarily, each going to different parts of the building and getting their jobs done, so you need to warn them.

“There was an Angel outside,” you say monotonously. Those words feel strange coming from your lips in such a tone, but your bit of discomfort won’t compare to the dread the others must feel. You were raised seeing Angels as protectors; to thumps, they are executioners. “Be careful.”

 

* * *

 

“Pulsar’s a great brand. I’ve got one of my own.” There’s a thwack as Vriska Serket pats the sleek rifle slung over her shoulder, still coming towards you, and you have to keep yourself from salivating; you’ve _always_ been a rifle guy. She stops about ten feet away, and before she can speak again, you reach up to your earpiece and mute audio input. “Did you steal that pistol from your daddy?” she mocks, barking a laugh. “Damn, kid, you’ve changed. I barely recognized you.”

“Maybe it would’ve been for the better if you hadn’t,” you snap at her, pushing down that small part of you that’s excited she’s here. “And no, I didn’t fucking steal it. I earned it through hard work, though I know you don’t know anything about that.”

“ _Woah_!” she says, showing teeth. “Sloooooooow the fuck down; don’t be so defensive. I was just making a simple observation, no need to get your thong in a twist. The century special edition adds a nice twist to the design, don’t you think?”

You don’t know how you’re supposed to answer that, but at least now you know why the gun is white instead of its usual black color. “Whatever,” you mutter, your fist tightening around the hilt. In some dark corner of your mind that’s full of dust and cobwebs, you pull on a cape of intimidation and demand, “What are you doing here, Vris?”

Shrugging, she takes a step closer. Her eyes, brighter and bluer than ever, take in every ounce of you, reading you like no one has in years. “Same as you, I’d say. Aranea asked me to come, and I said I’d do it for a favor. I was just making sure it was all clear up here.”

No one should ever owe Vriska anything, even if the debtee is someone in her own family; you learned that early on. “Then continue not sabotaging.” You lower your gun and stride towards a door across from Cronus’s office that’s marked SECURITY PERSONNEL ONLY. “I’m sort of fucking busy.”

But she follows you straight into the room, and watches predatorily as you shoot the two guys on duty and shove their bodies out of your way. “Aww look at the cute little badass,” she coos mockingly. Ignoring her, you use your father’s log in information to access the administrator settings of the security server for the building. “This was the last place I ever expected to see a casteist douchebag like you,” she says, leaning on the wall next to the control panel. “How the fuck did you get wrapped up in an equal rights group? And if you say you ‘learned new things’ or had a weird epiphany or something like that, then you’re even more of a wimp than I thought you were." 

You don’t answer. Past you would be horrified of what you’ve been doing with Rufioh and Kankri, but in a quiet corner of your thoughts you admit that you _have_ learned. So much. “Look, I know you’ve probably been sitting alone in your mom’s apartment wondering where the hell I’ve been—”

“HA!” she bursts. “You fucking _wish_!”

“But me,” you continue, eyebrow twitching in annoyance, “I’ve managed to stop behaving like a toddler and move on with my life. And that’s exactly what it is: _my_ life. Not my dad’s, not the government’s, _mine_.” You still have the mainframe confirmation code memorized from the days you were working studiously beside your father, learning everything that you possibly could about what he did, so you’re now able to input that into the space meant for it.

“I think what you mean is _not Feferi Peixes’,_ ” she retorts, sending you a devilish grin. “Or maybe you didn’t, because that bitch is always going to own you. Where is she, fucking a prisoner on the lowest floor?”

Huffing out a breath through your teeth, you backspace a typo you made in the command. “Look, Serket,” you snap, “if you want to hover over me, then shut the fuck up and let me do my work.”

Holding up her hands is not a gesture of surrender coming from her. “Sorry my awesomeness is such a distraction,” she says, entirely unapologetic. “See you later, _Ampora_.”

It’s like she knew that would make you scowl. Hunching closer to the computer, you continue the coded input. All woes related to Vriska Serket and the new risk to your security in the Furthest Ring can wait until you hit enter. You don’t let yourself feel guilty when you click your earpiece audio back on.

The moment you do, the shutdown code takes effect, turning off every monitor to leaving only a light bulb hanging from the ceiling on a wire to light the room. “It’s done,” you tell Sol through your earpiece, and you get a grunt in response. Even though you could leave now, you take a seat in a dead man’s chair, propping your feet up on the control panel and crossing your arms behind your head before switching your earpiece to Fef’s channel. “Hey, can you hear me?”

It takes a second, but momentarily you hear the faint _click_ of her arrival on the station. “Yeah,” she says, quiet but giddy. “Did you shut down the security equipment?”

“Oh, I finished that ages ago,” you boast, waving a hand nonchalantly despite the fact she can’t see you. “Need any backup down there?”

“No, I think we’ve got it. We’re about to clear the first floor,” she says before her voice gets farther away, speaking to someone that’s not you. She’s back in a few seconds. “Keep your eyes wide open. I think I spotted an Angel before I came inside.”

“You don’t just _spot_ an Angel,” you snap before you can stop yourself, old pride swelling in your chest. “Did you _see_ it, or did you _feel_ it?”

“I felt it the moment before I walked inside.”

If it _was_ an Angel, then there was an omnichip in its head, and whoever it was knows exactly who Fef is. Maybe your dad will hold off a bit before sending officers down, just in case Fef leads him to you. That would be good for the movement, but bad for your freedom.

You hope it wasn’t really an Angel.

“Do you remember everything I told you about the initiative?”

“Yes,” she responds, sounding a bit unsure.

“Good. Take it into account if you happen to run into one. Also, if that _does_ happen, it won’t be an accident on their part.”

“I know,” she assures you. In a ploy to get rid of you for a while, she suggests, “Maybe you should go upstairs and see if you can find anything.”

What she really means is, _“Raid Cronus’s office,”_ and since you just saw him yesterday you know what everything looks like, but you could take this opportunity to see what he’s been up to that he hasn’t been telling you; you know the position of District Supervisor isn’t just code for Person Who Smokes In His Office All Day, though that’s what your brother would have you believe. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that,” you say. “Ping me if you run into any trouble, okay? Be safe.”

“You too,” she says, and then she changes the channel.

 

* * *

 

“You have twenty minutes until the system forcibly reboots itself,” Sollux informs you the moment you switch back to his channel. “I suggest you gals hurry it up.”

Huffing, you flick your earpiece as if the motion would travel to the person talking into your ear. “It’s not like we’re the only ones doing this, we’ve got plenty of time.” Sollux scoffs but doesn’t comment.

The first person you encounter looks like an IT guy, and when Aradia pulls out her stunner the young woman stumbles back and drops her coffee. She curses as hot liquid splashes onto her toes and seems to regret not throwing the cup into your faces as Aradia surges forward and forces her weapon under the lady’s chin. With the click of a button, a small electric shock is administered, and the woman drops to the floor.

You know how stunners work. They make the victim unconscious by using an electrical pulse; it barely even hurts and it’s not _meant_ to. It’s just supposed to be a way for security personal to subdue targets easily. You wonder where Aradia got hers before following after her down a flight of stairs and to the first level underground.

She locates Damara almost immediately, because she recognizes the snoring that’s coming from one of the cells at the end of the hallway. She swipes the master key through the lock and there’s a click, but before you can open the door yourselves it bursts open. Damara is wielding a weird shank that you think is one of the sharpened rods she keeps in her hair, and when she realizes the person she’s threatening is her sister, she steps back and lets go of the other girl’s shirt collar, muttering something you don’t understand.

“Oh, shush,” Aradia says cheerfully, like she almost hadn’t been impaled with a small metal stick. “You know it isn’t his fault.”

Damara spits on the ground and doesn’t loosen the grasp she has on her makeshift weapon. You open your mouth to tell her to follow you but she fixes you with the same unnerving look you got back at Derse a few days ago and turns on her heel.

“Go to the security room,” Aradia calls after her. “That’s where we’ll all be meeting afterward.”

Her sister just waves a middle finger behind her and says without turning around, “You are not coming?”

“We have work to do!” Aradia grins.

“A ‘thanks’ would’ve been appreciated,” you sigh, and apparently she heard you because you get a, “ _Fuck_ your sorry desire for gratitude with a spiked mace.”

You’ve never liked her.

Aradia takes one side of the hallway and you get the other. There are nine cells total, and each opens seamlessly when you swipe your cards. “Wait for us at the end of the hallway,” you instruct each person, and some run like spooked mice while others offer their assistance. You tell those that wish to be helpful that you don’t need them, because they’ve already been stripped from their families as a threat and they don’t need to be any more wrapped up in this.

When everyone is all in one place, standing in front of the elevator, you have a moment to evaluate them. The youngest one is a boy three or four years behind you in age, while the oldest seems to be well into his seventies. There’s someone of every ethnicity, height, mass, and gender, as mixed and varied as those are, and they’re all staring at the two of you.

You want to protect them, and you realize with a start that some of them are looking to you and Aradia to do just that. A surge of confidence goes through you, and you find yourself grinning.

About fifteen minute later, you’re urging the last person on your row to hurry. The metaphorical window is closing, Aradia is waiting for you at the other end of the hall on the fourth floor, and you need to get your people out of this sector before the systems forcibly override and boot back up. When you reach the rest of the group, Aradia is beginning to usher them into the elevator room, and you take a moment to wonder about why they’re all just following orders complacently. It’s probably because they’re drugged.

“Barely missed it, ladies,” Sollux sighs into your earpiece as the elevator door closes behind you. “I hope you’ll get better at that.”

“Oh, hush,” Aradia says, dusting off her hands. “We’re done for now, anyway. It’s time to lead.”

One of the guys is repeatedly mashing the elevator button, so you snort. “Pay attention! It’s all manual now, we have to get our guy,” you tap the earpiece, “to open it and send us up."

“Ah yes,” Sollux says drily into your hear. “I’m totally your guy.” He does something and the door slides open, and people pile on. It’s cramped with about ten bodies pushed up against each other, but it’s a short ride to ground level, and then they’re out.

“Exit through the front,” you direct. “That’s where the protesters are, and _do not join them_ unless you see your family. Don’t go home, just try to find somewhere safe for the next day or so. Alter your plan according to what the fallout is like. Good luck!”

“What group was that?” Sollux asks after they’re gone.

“Three,” Aradia answers.

“Then that should be the last one for you guys,” he says. It’s silent for a few moments and then he breaks in, “Fuck fuck fuck people are coming, _hide_.”

 

* * *

 

Cronus’s office is just as it was the other day, but as you rifle through everything in sight and find his secondary computer password taped to the underside of his desk, a new side of it is revealed, and it’s closer to what you remembered about your brother before. You really shouldn’t be surprised about how many freaking Craigslist ads for orgies he has bookmarked, but you’re repulsed all the same.

You go through emails, browser history, word documents, picture folders—you find lots of porn, about five different versions of _The Outsiders,_ the _Harry Potter_ reboots, and a few mundane reports, but there’s nothing on his computer that indicates he’s up to something other than being the reprehensible douche he has always been. His desk drawers are filled with combs, hair product, and sticky notes, and the only physical pieces of paper you can find are a couple of highlighted reports on instances of BHG business. It’s really nothing out of the ordinary.

…Wait a second.

Looking through the printed reports again, you begin to notice a pattern. There’s the violent detainment of a hacker, the Reiner Court Rapist case, the assassination of two Felt members, the defenestration of an illegal arms dealer—

Every single one of the reports is about Callon Actium.

Trying to think past the strange ringing in your ears, you wonder how, _when_ he found out. Was he on your tail before you revealed yourself to him? Would you have woken up one day to an Angel staring at you through your window? Was he lying to you when he said Dad didn’t know?

You’re almost scared of what the two of them have been up to.

Something rustles behind you and you jump, pulling your gun, but it’s just the air conditioner turning on. Huffing, you move to sheath your gun, you notice it’s vibrating faintly.

When you realize what’s going on, it’s too late; the gun has already exploded in your hand.

How did you fucking forget about the safety measures? Since Pulsar is a military brand, they’re equipped with certain safeguards so it’s harder for people to take up arms against the government. If such a thing ever did occur, they’d make sure no one in the police has one on their person before emitting a signal at around 19,000 hertz that triggers a switch in the gun that causes a meltdown of the reactor and a small explosion, effectively destroying the gun.

So why the fuck did you take _Fawkes_ with you? Because you’re stupid, that’s why.

Looking down and blinking away the shock, you see that the gun is in pieces on the floor. Plasma and blood are smeared over the remnants of your hand, and there’s something on the floor beside it that looks like a tiny hotdog. Blinking slowly, you stare uncomprehendingly at the gaping wound where two of your fingers used to be and the one fleshy cylinder on the floor, mind not putting it together because there is only _one_ near the gun and there are _two_ that got blown off.

Before the plasma can start burning the remaining skin, bits of training cut through your stupefied haze, and you wipe the stuff on the papers in your other hand, trying your best not to freak out about a chunk of your hand being gone. The thing with Pulsar is it fucks with the nerve endings in such a way that it takes nearly a minute for the pain to hit, after the blast goes off.

 _OH_ —oh, there it is, there it is indeed. It creeps up and pounces, and you hiss a sob through your teeth, the extent of the damage making itself known with howls and screams for attention. Hand twitching as it tries to decide whether or not it wants to curl into a fist or disintegrate, you swallow hard, a flash of anger sweeping in as you feel your lips trembling in an outward display of weakness. As your stomach churns, you lock the pain and fear into a little box in the back of your mind like your father taught you to years and years ago. You have a job to complete, even though you’re down a gun and a hand. You can writhe in pain later.

You tap your earpiece, trying to switch to Fef’s channel, but no matter what station you try, there’s nothing; the explosion must’ve blown out the receiver. Gritting your teeth, you take it out and chuck it in the waste bin. Who cares if they can trace it back to you at this point? You’re already bleeding all over Cronus’s goddamned floor!

Belatedly, you realize what the pulse means, and you backpedal, making sure you can’t be seen from the window. As you clutch your ruined hand to your shirt to try and stem the bleeding, you desperately wish your communications line was still open so you’d know what was going on, because now you don’t know the evacuation plan that should be going into place now. You don’t see or hear anyone, but those stupid fucks already blew up your gun, so that means the police are here and ready to kill every single one of you.

 

* * *

 

“Eridan?” you call in for the fifth time from your place hiding in a cabinet with Aradia mushed next to you, talking to Sollux over her own earpiece. “Eridan, answer me!”

You know he won’t—the line is dead. There’s none of the white noise that signals the channel is open and running. His earpiece malfunctioned or was destroyed, and not knowing which one terrifies you.

“He’s fine,” Aradia tells you quietly. “Eridan’s no dummy, he’ll realize something’s up and get out of the building.”

Sighing, you wring your hands together. “But he’s upstairs, it’ll be easier for people to find him—”

“It’s better than being trapped down here like us,” she argues. “I promise he’ll be fine.”

You know she’s right; you just hate not knowing for sure. Switching your channel to Karkat, you ask him, “Are we clear yet?”

“There’s someone in the hallway next to yours,” he reports, “and it looks like they’re heading your way. I’ll tell you when to—SHUT UP.”

Your teeth clack together and Aradia leans further back into the wall when you hear the door open. Footsteps hurry through, not hesitating when they pass by your hiding spot to your relief, and continuing into the next room. Moments later, a door slams.

“Hold on a second,” Karkat tells you, and then there’s muffled speech in the background; he must’ve covered up the microphone to converse with those physically with him. “Change of plans,” he says, something a bit maniacal in his voice. “Some dumbshit Nitram decided to plant explosives.”

“ _What_?” you say incredulously, and you see Aradia’s lips grow into a grin.

“Tavros says he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt,” he continues, and you can practically hear the vein in his forehead pulsing, “but—you know what? Fuck it, he’s your brother, you can explain.”

There’s a slight rustling sound and then there’s a timid, “Um, hi guys.” You wonder when he got to the Captor Compound, and how he and his wheelchair both fit into that tiny room.

“Tell them what you just told me,” Karkat snaps off to the side.

“From the things Rufioh told me, last night,” the younger Nitram starts, sounding sheepish and nervous, “he wanted to, uh, how did he put it? I think he said he wanted to destroy the, symbol? That sounds like something he’s say, yeah. So he got some, um, friends of his and gave them all explosives, and he has the detonator. So they’ve been planted, but he won’t blow them, until he’s sure everyone is out.”

“Thank you for enlightening them to your insane brother’s plot, Tavros.” Karkat’s voice is dripping with sarcasm as he takes the earpiece back.

Quietly, he replies, “You’re quite welcome. Now, please continue shouting, and accomplishing nothing.”

“Anyway,” Karkat sighs, “you’ll be meeting him and the others in the security room, and then we’ll create a distraction out here so you can slip out the back. You ready?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, a bit antsy over the _explosives_ that are sure to be everywhere.

“Then go,” Karkat urges, and from Aradia’s movement, you know Sollux is telling her the same thing. “Go right now, take the door the guy just came from, go up the stairs, and it’s the second door on the right. Now move it!”

With a well-placed kick to the weak lock, the metal evidence cabinet bursts open, and you stumble to the floor, Aradia lurching out beside you. Immediately, you’re out the door and jogging down the hallway thinking, _Please let Eridan be there, please_ …

He’s not there.

Rufioh’s eyes sweep over both of you as you slip inside, and he lowers the pistol he was pointing at you. “Fef and Aradia just came in,” he reports into his earpiece. “Only missing two now.”

There are more people in this room that originally came into the building with your group, so that means some of the prisoners joined you, even if you told them not to. Damara, of course, is one of them.

“We can’t wait forever,” she snaps, crossing her arms across her chest. Her fingers twitch slightly. “These people aren’t retarded, they know to get out of a building.”

“But the distraction is for _us_ ,” Rufioh argues, “not for individuals. We’ll wait.”

“What about the part where you’re going to _blow up the freaking building_?” you question incredulously.

Blinking owlishly, he asks, “How did you find out about that?”

“I have sources,” you say firmly. “We can’t leave anyone in here if it’s going to be rubble.”

“Fef, I know the building will be empty before I blow it,” he soothes, “because we’re going to give them a warning—”

“Eridan is your friend,” you say firmly, refusing to be pacified. “You’d just leave him, not knowing whether or not he got out?”

Huffing, he runs a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t want to do that, which is why we’re waiting.” He turns abruptly. “There, see? He’s—”

The door opens, and there’s only the briefest second before the room is filled with the loudest sound you ever heard, and a cop is falling dead in the doorway. Some of his blood spots the hems of your pants.

Cursing and lowering the pistol that he’d pointed at you earlier, Rufioh beeps to whoever’s on his earpiece channel, “They found us and we’ve got a dead guy on our hands, so scratch what I said a minute ago, we have to _go_.”

“It looks like you had some dead guys already,” Aradia points out, gesturing to two bodies that got shoved under the control panel at some point. “Why does another one suddenly matter?”

“Those were already there, and I’m sure the new guy had actual SWAT gear,” Rufioh sighs, turning away and nodding as he listens to whatever Kankri or whoever is telling him. “Yeah, got it. Waiting for your signal.”

Fighting your way through the crowd of figures in the tiny room, you pester Rufioh, “Have you seen Eridan at _all_?”

He looks at you sadly and shakes his head. “He’s been in worse situations than this,” he assures you. “I’m sure he’ll find his way out, but we have to… okay, _now_.”

Grabbing your arm like you wouldn’t follow otherwise, Rufioh moves toward the door and pushes it open, kicking the body out of the way. He releases you to gesture to everyone else to follow and shut up, and you hear what sounds like glass breaking from across the street. They must’ve blown out all of the windows of the building there. In the same area, gunfire erupts.

“Come on, let’s go,” Rufioh commands your group, leading the twenty or so of you to the back. It seems that the distraction in the street had the desired effect—there’s only one guard watching the back door, and her head is tilted away from you, her attention focused on the commotion out front.

Rufioh hits her with the butt of his gun, and she drops. Jerking his head towards an alley, everyone follows.

You can’t help but look back at the building a few times, trying to find any sign of Eridan. _He’d never leave you in there alone,_ your thoughts whisper, _he would’ve made sure you’d gotten out safely before he even thought of leaving himself._

 _He’s not stupid,_ you reprimand that part of your brain. _He’ll figure out that we’re gone and get out._

… _Okay, maybe he_ is _stupid sometimes, but this is supposed to be his area of expertise. He’ll be fine!_

You halt in your tracks before you consciously make the decision. Aradia stops next to you, a question in her eyes. “We’re far enough away, and I can still see the back door,” you tell her. “I’m waiting to make sure he’s out. Ping me if he made it to the safezone before us, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, squeezing your shoulder before jogging to catch up with everyone else.

With a sigh, you lean against the wall and stare at the door. There’s a black lump at the side of the building that you know is the unconscious cop, and you keep an eye on her and watch for any of her colleagues. Backup should arrive soon.

Minutes pass without incident. Tapping your nails against the wall, you search the windows for signs of movement—there’s nothing to suggest he’s still searching the building, but he wasn’t with you so he has to be in there still. If he isn’t, you’ve stayed behind for nothing, and you’ll smack him over the head later for scaring you like this. This is _so_ like him, going off on his own and doing whatever he wants without any consideration for—

Something is happening. Turning your head towards the commotion, you hear people shouting, but even with your better than average hearing, you can’t make out the words. Hesitantly, you creep closer, lips pursed in dawning horror. When someone runs around the back, you freeze, ready to bolt, but he pays no attention to you—he just picks up the unconscious woman and runs out of there. The urgency of it all makes you start backing away, but your eyes are flitting back and forth to all of the windows and _finally_ you see movement in one of the second floor ones. Before you can get a better look, the ground starts to shake.

Minutes later, when you can finally force yourself out of your horrified stupor, you call Aradia. “Please tell me he’s there,” you breathe.

She’s silent for long enough that know the answer before she says it, and you start moving. “Feferi… watch your back.”

Your hand moves to your ear and switches the communicator to a quiet channel.

 

* * *

 

The building wasn’t supposed to collapse. That definitely wasn’t part of the plan.

It’s chaotic and terrifying and dooming. As it all falls apart around you, you can only think to hold on to something, so you grasp at anything—at the walls, the desk, the antiquated coatrack—as the noise crescendos and it’s _loud_ , so overbearingly loud that you want to curl up in a little ball and cover your ears. You’re sideways and disoriented and at some point your shoulder hits the window with enough force to break it and you think, _this is it_.

The building jolts, helping you in your journey out the window but at the same time something shifts and sharpness punctures your abdomen and—

You blink. You must’ve passed out, because your position is entirely new compared to your old coordinates, and your new displacement is by no means comfortable. You’re wedged into an awkward position, feeling almost numb as you stare upward at an expanse of ashy gray above you. _That’s the sky,_ you realize belatedly, because you can see the orb of light that is the sun, but it’s as if a semi-opaque sheet of paper has been draped over your eyes to conceal it. Your head lolls to the side as you try to get a better look at your surroundings, but something shifts under you and from somewhere deep and hidden, you grasp strength and use it to _push_.

But you don’t go anywhere.

(Get up.)

The pile shifts around you and some of the material that was threatening to crush your face rolls down the mountain of debris, and you can see that you’re actually in a decent position to evacuate once you figure out why you didn’t move a second ago. ( _Get_ _up!_ ) Your head is dangling back, so you use most of your energy to lift it so you can take a look at your body—

_Oh god._

A sob catches in your throat even though you don’t feel the pain. The peak of that pretentious fucking coatrack is sticking out of your belly, mocking you with its glistening point that is no doubt covered in your blood. That’s not the reason you didn’t move though, no way. Your legs are caught under the combined weight of two steel beams, a filing cabinet, and a disastrous amount of rubble.

 _Not caught_ , you correct yourself. _Crushed._

(You still have to _get up_ , that’s what you’ve been taught since your father first had the notion of putting you in the Angel program. _Get up_ , it doesn’t matter how hard you are hit, you must _get up_ again and again and again until you’re dead.

_Get up, Eridan._

_Get up or you’re not worthy._

_Get up or you will die_.)

You know you need to slow down your breathing but you’re kinda panicking so that’s not a realistic course of action. Once again, you try to shift your lower body, just an inch, but you can’t even twitch. You’re pinned.

But the building is still shifting. It hasn’t settled yet. There’s still a chance for you to get free, to get up, if you take the opportunity. You feel something move far under you and there’s a jolt through your spine but nothing moves enough to get any leeway. A minute passes and there are another few shifts, and after you wait them out you find that you can barely move your left leg. You can’t bend it or push with it, but it’s not as trapped as it used to be.

Your head is foggy and you feel unconsciousness picking at the edges of your mind, so if you want to live you have to act now.

Bracing your hands on something solid is hard, because one of them keeps slipping. It takes a minute to remember that a chunk of it is missing, so it’s not going to be much help. Somehow, you manage to get a decent grip on some concrete, and you arch your back. The pain is instant and sharp and there’s a weird sucking sound. You may have screamed as the coatrack exited your body, but now you just gasp in sobs and try to ignore the blood dripping down into the debris and the bit that squirts up into a beam of wood whenever it fancies. Clenching your teeth, you exhaust the rest of your energy giving one final push with your arms, and you feel skin scraping off your shins and you swear something else in your fragmented limbs cracks but now you’re hanging by an ankle. You _swear_ you hear someone call your name and you suck in another breath and wiggle awkwardly, trying to box the pain away like you were taught to no avail.

And then you fall.

About five feet down, your shoulder hits a concrete slab and you roll, and then the world is a blur, whirring by until you come to a painful stop once you hit a support beam. You’re pretty much street level, lying on lumpy bricks, and it feels like someone is striking you over and over again with sledgehammers while your legs are being crushed between the steel doors of one of the elevators up to the Burbs. You’ve felt your fair share of pain before and it was always something you’ve been able to deal with, but this is new, this is absolute _agony_. Where’s the adrenaline, where’s the biological safeguards that are supposed to kick in and make sure nothing ever hurts this much? The groan you let out isn’t even human.

The only thing you can force yourself to do is close your eyes. There will be no getting up for you.

 

* * *

 

The area is mostly clear. There is distant yelling and the police perimeter is in smithereens, but you don’t see a single body or spot of blood. There’s dust and debris and shrapnel coating the streets, and you cover your mouth with your shirt and shield your eyes the best you can with your hand. The intense rumbling that shook the block moments earlier is gone, replaced with something more like silence.

Any explosives must’ve been strapped to the lower levels, as the above ground portion of the building collapsed inward instead of being blown outward. What was underground manifested itself in something akin to the earthquakes of Pasadena, making the entire block rumble and causing some damage to the surrounding buildings—broken windows and the like. That gives you hope as you run towards the wreckage, heading straight for the area where you saw movement in the seconds before it all fell. There’s a bit of hope stirring somewhere deep within you that maybe Eridan was close enough to the window that he could’ve jumped at the last minute or was at the edge so you can find him easier, but sorting through rubble isn’t going to be an easy task.

“Eridan?” you call when you’re within ten feet of the ring of rubble, not caring if anyone hears you. “Eridan, are you there?”

The only response is one of the old weathered bricks rolling into the street from atop a large pile of fragmented wood and steel. You don’t hesitate wading into the rubble, stepping over bricks and concrete and fragmented support structures in order to get to the brunt of the wreckage. It doesn’t take long for scratches to accumulate on your legs even through your jeans and the dust causes coughing fits that make you hunch over and hack your lungs out, eyes watering and chest heaving. In the end, that makes you cry—not the panic or the worry, but the bits of irritating debris in the air.

There’s something loud and wrenching somewhere above you and as you try to look, something large clatters down. You stumble back, almost falling in your haste, but it rolls to a stop about three feet from you, wedged on a beam. A choked noise comes from your throat as you rush to the lump’s side, and you roll the body over even though something in you screams he could have a spinal injury. He—He— _Eridan_. It’s Eridan.

You knew from the second you saw him land this would be bad, and now that you’re by his side, you can take him in. His shirt is absolutely soaked in blood from a wound you can’t see, but there’s a hole in his shirt to tell you where to look. The state of his legs through his shredded pants makes you nauseated, because they’re bent and broken and slivers of bone greet you near one of his ankles and halfway up one shin. Even though they’re the strongest bones in the body, his femurs haven’t been saved, and you see the grotesque positions that the bones have been forced into—

For the sake of your sanity, you look at his face. It’s pretty beat up too, with a nasty bump on his forehead and scrapes all down one cheek and the side of his jaw, but it’s still recognizably _him_. He groans, and you almost laugh. “I knew it was you in the window,” you breathe in relief that’s only a little bit tinged with horror.

Eridan’s eyes, unshielded by glasses, crack open. “Fef?”

His voice is so broken and quiet that it sends a stab of coldness into your heart. Swallowing, you nod and reach out, smoothing some of his hair off his forehead. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll get you out.”

“No,” he protests, slurring the word. “No, ‘t ‘urts.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize preemptively, because you know this isn’t going to be very fun for him. “I’ll do most of the work, but grab on when I tell you to, okay?”

You give him time to voice his affirmation by calling Karkat, but he’s busy with someone else and he’s blocking your interference. Bending closer to Eridan and burying threads of anxiety, you take his arms and twist your back, hiking him up so he’s pressed against your spine. Almost immediately, you feel blood begin to seep into your shirt. He screams, shrill and agonized, right into your ear, and you almost drop him. “Hang on,” you direct and he clutches you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive as you reach back, grabbing awkwardly at his waist and butt as you stand. One of his arms presses almost too tightly around your neck and the other pushes into your chest, but you can still sort of breathe. Near one of his hands, you feel blood begin to leak onto your skin.

He’s heavy and tall, but you know you can carry him even though his feet will touch the ground. You have him in a strange piggyback position and you have to walk bowed forward, but all that matters is that you get him out of here.

You can’t take him very far. Sure, you’re strong, but he’s taller and you can’t hike him high enough on your back and his feet drag on the pavement as you run. Your hands are fisted tightly in his clothes and under the bits of him you can try to hold up and you can feel the fabric getting ready to tear. When you go over uneven bumps in the road, he hisses or whimpers right in your ear and it’s _awful_ ; you just want to sit down and take him in your arms and tell him everything is going to be alright, but you’re not sure it _is_ because his legs are fucked and he’s losing blood too fast. The bloodstain on your back is growing.

In the dust and confusion, none of the cops stationed nearby see you as you half drag, half carry him towards a building you know has been emptied. The front door is unlocked, so you adjust your position and painstakingly get it open, using your hand for the brief second you can stand to and then wedging your elbow in the crack you created. Eridan accidentally lets a broken yell slip into your hair when one of his legs bangs on the door as it’s closing. “I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking, “I’m so sorry, just hold on.”

He moans into your neck, and you feel like you might be sick; since your chest aches just looking at him, you can’t bear to imagine what he must be feeling. Carefully, you go around the opposite side of the giant metal desk that’s in the center of the room and slide behind it, trying your hardest to get him onto the floor safely but getting pained noises in return. Once his back is against the metal plates and his legs are stretched out in front of him, you trying calling Sollux to no avail. Either he’s ignoring your channel, or there’s a problem with the receiver. Since neither he nor Karkat have been responding, maybe there’s something wrong with your earpiece.

“Still n’t answerin’?” Eridan asks weakly, and when you turn back to him, he’s got one hand shielding his face while the other is…

 _Shit_ , you hadn’t noticed that yet. There’s a pool of blood forming under the hand that’s on the floor, because it looks like someone grabbed onto two of his fingers and ripped a chunk of his hand off.

Swallowing to get rid of the lump in your throat, you go and sit next to him, taking the hand that’s on the ground and, as gently as you possibly can, smooth out his remaining fingers so you can see the rest of the damage. There’s blood and muscle and bone, fragments of skin and tissue hanging off in a mutilated display of horror, and normally gore doesn’t squick you out but this is _Eridan_. If he were just some random guy, you’d be able to take in his injuries with no problems and a detached fascination, but he’s your best friend and bits of him are _decimated_.

Reaching to your ankle, you remove the small knife sheathed there and use it to tear the bottom off your shirt. “I’m sure they’ll answer us soon,” you say softly, taking the end of the tatter and beginning to wrap it around the gaping wound to at least make sure nothing gets in it. An uproar of gunshots and yelling can be heard from outside. You flinch but don’t halt.

Soon, you’ve wrapped it as securely as you can get it. You try contacting Karkat again. It’s not really surprising when all you receive is silence. “I’m sure we’ll get a reply,” you repeat, smiling at Eridan. You’ve still got the torso wound to deal with, so you take off the remnants of your shirt and start shredding that. You know that Eridan’s not all there when he just looks at you, eyes glazed over and not even seeing. You’re tempted to jiggle your boobs a bit to try for a reaction—you’re _that_ desperate—but then you’d have to smother hysterical giggles and you don’t want him to think that you’re laughing at him.

“Let’s get your shirt up,” you suggest, grasping the hem and slowly inching it over his stomach. He clenches his jaw, determined not to let any more sounds slip out, and you don’t have enough to wrap the material all the way around so you say, “Brace yourself,” and stuff some of your shirt into the entry would.

This time, he _does_ scream, and it’s probably the worst sound you’ve ever heard. It isn’t like any of the short, pained yells from before; this is Eridan in unrelenting anguish. But he doesn’t move or make the job any harder for you because he knows you’re in the right—he just screams and screams as you stuff both sides of the wound, any breaths he takes turning into sobs, and you feel like the most wretched being on Earth.

“There,” you say, not soon enough. You go to brush some of your hair back with your hand, but your fingers are coated in blood so you just put it back down. “All done.”

Honestly, you’re amazed he’s still conscious. A grimace has become a permanent fixture on his tear-laden face, but you can’t see his eyes because he still has his good hand thrown over them. Carefully, you remove it and kiss his palm before clutching it in both of yours. You feel like you should try and do something for his legs, but the state they’re in makes you think that even doctors in the Burbs might not be able to save them.

…The Burbs…

Despite your best efforts to plug all of his wounds, blood still leaks from his abdomen and hand; in less than a minute, your once coral shirt is crimson. Somewhere in this timeframe, he leans over and starts gagging, nothing coming up but bile, and you rub his back and try to comfort him but if you don’t get him good medical attention _soon_ , he’s going to die.

He’s going to die.

Even though it shouldn’t be an easy choice to make, you’ve decided what to do in seconds. You try buzzing Karkat and Sollux again just to be able to say you tried until the last possible second, and neither of them reply, so really, you have no other choice. “I’m going to call the emergency line and tell him who we are, and they’ll send someone to get us.”

He doesn’t protest; it seems all of the fight has been beaten out of him. “‘kay,” he says feebly, and it alarms you that such a simple word is slurred on his lips.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. “I love you,” you say, and change the radio frequency.

Immediately, the white noise in your ear changes to the emergency station, and the calm, monotonous voice on the other end commands, “State your name and rank.”

“Feferi Peixes,” you answer, the name sounding foreign on your lips. “Level 12.”

“Confirmation code?” it requests.

“612413.”

The other line is silent for a few seconds, and you wonder if you’ve been disconnected until the voice says, “You’re being transferred to a live representative,” and there’s a little click.

“Miss Peixes,” a deep voice says, and you think it might be the oldest Zahhak, meaning they directed the call to the police, not emergency services. “I was not aware you were back from Pasadena.”

“Surprise!” you exclaim, almost wanting to laugh. “I was never there in the first place, despite what my mother may have said. Eridan Ampora, level 11, is badly injured and requires immediate medical attention. Remember, _immediate_ means _right fucking now_.”

“Um,” he says, sounding taken aback, “I will make sure a team is sent to your location, though we will have to find someone who can confirm your identity first.”

Irked, you snap, “I already gave my confirmation code.”

“Sometimes, Miss Peixes,” Mr. Zahhak says, “technology fails. I believe there is someone nearby that will be very willing to check the legitimacy of your situation.”

Then the line goes dead, and you want to hit something. Absentmindedly, you change your earpiece back to its regular channel. If Zahhak wants to talk to you again, he’ll break through.

Eridan’s head falls onto your shoulder, and one of your hands goes up automatically to run your fingers through his hair. “They’re coming,” you tell him, “so don’t you dare give up on me.”

When he doesn’t reply, you shake him and poke his fucked up hand and kick one of his legs; little twitches of his mouth tell you he’s alive, but he’s officially lost consciousness.

“Great,” you say to yourself. You’re unable to hold back a giggle. It’s always better to laugh than cry.

“What’s great?” Karkat asks.

This, for some reason, finally sends you over the edge and into the hysterics that have been building ever since you showed up in the security control center and Eridan wasn’t there. You laugh and laugh and laugh; Karkat must think you’re shithive maggots. When you finally get your breath back, you compose yourself in a second. “So _now_ you answer me.”

“We’re a bit busy,” he snaps. “Our tracking software is malfunctioning. Where the fuck are you? Are you with Eridan?”

“Yeah,” you answer. “Yeah, I’m with Eridan, but I’m not going to tell you where.”

There’s a beat of quiet, and you can feel his irritated confusion. “And why is that?”

You shrug, even though he can’t see you. “You’re a bit too late, Karkat. Eridan’s hurt. Badly. I’m not sure if he’ll make it to the next meeting.”

“I… Oh.” His voice is quiet. You never thought you’d hear the day where Karkat Vantas could be stunned into a softer volume. “Oh. How bad?”

“Bad enough that he can’t walk since his legs are so deformed and I’m covered in his blood.”

The only reason you know Karkat hasn’t changed stations is because you can hear his hitched breathing, plus additional murmuring voices in the background. After a few moments of wretched silence, he speaks. “Feferi,” you can hear the roughness and pity in that single word, “just tell me where you are and we’ll send someone in to get you.”

You can hear arguing erupt on his side of the line. It’s hard to tell what’s being said, but you hear Kankri above all of the others, “ _Do you fucking_ see _now, Rufioh, what happens when you go into something unprepared? They’re_ children _; God, they’re just fucking_ children _that should’ve never_ —”

“ _So are we! All of us are practically little fucking kids but_ — _”_

“Can you tell me exactly what’s wrong with him?” Karkat asks calmly, sounding livid but holding it together for your sake.

“I think he was holding his gun when the pulse frequency was released,” you explain, relying on old controls to make sure your voice doesn’t hitch, “so part of his hand is gone. He didn’t manage to clear the building before it collapsed, some of the debris crushed his legs and a pole or something went through his stomach. Well actually, it’s closer to one of his kidneys. I wish I were _kid_ ding.” Karkat doesn’t find your pun very funny, and you really don’t either. “He’s lost so much blood...”

After a moment of astounded, disturbed silence, Karkat says, “Fef, we can get him to Kanrki’s hospital, it’ll be okay—”

“Weren’t you listening to me?” you interrupt. “I said it was too late.”

“Coldra Feferi Caesar,” he snaps like he’s suddenly your main authority figure, “if you don’t fucking listen to me he _will_ die—”

“ _That’s not my name_.”

You wait for what feels like eons for his response. The quarrelling in the background has gone quiet as well. “…What?”

Swallowing, you start, “Karkat, soon you’re going to hear things about Eridan and I, and if they say we were spies or crazy or that we were never even _with_ you,” unable to hold it back, a sob rips through you, and you bite your hand until the urge to cry passes. You taste the metallic tang of blood on your skin, and you’re not sure if it’s yours or Eridan’s or a mixture of the two. “You have to know. You have to know that we _believed_ in this, we’re _invested_ in this, and we might not have been entirely truthful in some aspects but every time we spoke and got together for breakfast and when you and Eridan sat on the couch and cried over shitty romcoms that was _us_ , that was _real_.”

His voice is strained. “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.”

You hear footsteps coming up the steps to the building, loud and ominous, and you wonder whom they belong to. “I hear them, Karkat, I have to go. Know that I love you all so much and so does Eridan even if he’s an arrogant prick most of the time, that’s just how he _is_. I’ll try to come back, I really will, but even so you probably won’t be seeing very much of me for a while. I feel horrible to leave at the peak of things but _Karkat_ , if you loved someone and had the opportunity to _save_ them, wouldn’t you?”

You take the earpiece, put it on the floor, crush it under your heel, and push the scraps under the desk just as the door opens.

“Hey,” an incredibly familiar drawl calls you, “where the fuck are you guys?”

“Back here,” you say, lifting a hand above the desk. You hear his footsteps come closer, and soon Cronus Ampora is standing above you.

However, it’s like you’re not even there. Lids low, lips pursed, he stares at his brother before saying a command into his own earpiece. When that’s done, he nudges the bottom of Eridan’s foot with his toe. “You stupid fuck,” he says, but there’s no venom in it. “You lied to me.”

Before you can make sense of his words, paramedics are coming inside and taking Eridan away from you, and when you go to follow them, Cronus holds your arm and shakes his head. His eyes drop to your chest, even though now definitely isn’t the time. “You have to find your own way home.”

Ripping your arm from his grasp, you slap him across the face (the sick satisfaction that comes from that action serves to be both invigorating and disgusting). You turn your voice into a razor blade to try and incite fear in him as you bite, “My mother _owns_ anything used by the hospital, I’m sure I can tag along.”

His lip curls, hand reaching up to press against the spot you hit, but after a moment of thought, he nods. “Yeah,” he agrees, sneer still in place, “you can, just as long as you stare at the body of my little brother the entire time and take in the fact that _everything_ that has happened to him while he was down here following _you_ around on a fucking leash is all your fault _.”_ He must’ve seen the bit of incredulousness that sparked in your mind, because his laugh is mocking. “Oh did you not fucking realize the hold you have over him? Because everyone else does. Eridan would slice off his limbs at the joint and give them to you for a holiday gift if you asked him to, and you still turn up your nose at him and do whatever _you_ want with no regards to my brother’s safety. If he _dies_ ,” the scariest part of this is that his voice breaks, and to cover it up he jabs you in the chest with a finger, “it’ll be _your fault_.”

He leaves you stunned and alone in the building, unable to feel anything but misery because he’s _right_. Cronus has always been gibingly cruel and he knows how to get under anyone’s skin about anything, but he hardly even had to try for that one. You came down here because you wanted to save one of the only people that mattered to you, and it looks like you’ll be the one that kills him.

Your name is Feferi Peixes, you are an heiress to everything you have ever reviled, and you don’t know what to do.

 

**END OF ACT I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: I'm the friendleader of Team Eridan<>Feferi for the Homestuck Shipping World Cup this year, so for the next couple of months, I will be focused on that rather than Insurgency. The Intermission and Chapter 11 will still probably go up, but there are no promises. It all depends on how well HSWC is going for us!
> 
> Since Act 1 has come to a close, you can now prompt me on Tumblr (sonicsymphony.tumblr.com) and I'll write something for you, except if it's spoilery. Wondering about backstory? Characters that haven't yet made an appearance? Fluffy moments in the interregnum? Ask, and you shall receive! Please read the prompt FAQ first, though.


	11. INTERMISSION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very busy lately, especially with HSWC. Progress on Insurgency has slowed quite a bit, but the next chapter is done and I'm steadily working my way through the one after. I hope I can maintain my once a month update schedule, but we'll just have to see.
> 
> If you were expecting Eridan or Feferi or a conclusion to the events of last chapter, you'll be disappointed, because all you're getting is Meenah.

That thump boy was in your class.

His name was Kankri Vantas. He was sixteen years old, his clothes didn’t fit right (not to mention they were the ugliest duds you’d ever laid eyes on), his hair was always out of order, and his overbite was atrocious. Despite being so low on the GMS he practically didn’t have a number, he wanted to get involved in genetics, which was supposed to be _your_ legacy. It felt gross that you knew all this shit about a loser you’d probably never speak to, but _everyone_ knew, since he was the university’s charity case of the year.

They almost never lasted the semester. The university only did it so they could say they tried; _it’s the Furthest Ring brats that were the problem,_ the school claimed. They couldn’t keep up with the academics, and people _would_ get suspicious except the student leaving always made a statement about how they didn’t think it’d be this _rigorous_ and blah blah blah. It’s a blatant excuse to get away from people that obviously hated them.

On the first day of your anatomy lecture, he sat alone in the front left corner of the room, and no one went near him. The professor sent out an assessment test—you’d taken so many of those goddamned things and you were fuckin _sick_ of them, and oh look, that kid had to get a physical, pen-and-paper copy because he came to class without a tablet—and you were done with the hundred questions in ten minutes; you’d been over the lab safety bullshit more times than you could count. You couldn’t leave until everyone was finished, though; beginning assessments were the only kinds of tests you had to wait around for. When people started completing their exams, throwing things at that kid became a game: gum wrappers, tablet styluses, hair ties, and whatever else they had to chuck at him ended up in his hair and on his clothes and surrounding the floor near his desk. You were surprised that no one had chucked their tablet at him yet. You thought you were the class champion for getting the most things stuck in his hair.

That dumbass was either oblivious or retarded or brave, because he didn’t say a word or try to get the objects off him. When you were dismissed and he got out of his desk, tiny paper balls and numerous other supplies came cascading down onto the floor, and he cleaned it all up and dumped it in the trash before grabbing his satchel and flouncing from the room.

Maybe he’d be a tough one to break. It might take a while, but there was no doubt in your mind he would. They all did.

The next time you saw him was a week later, the second time the class met. The exam grades were posted on the board, and you could tell before you even got up there that things didn’t go well.

Thump boy got the second highest score in the class, one point after you. A 99 to your 100.

You laughed. The cackle burst from you the second you saw the top two results, and it was so fucking _funny_ because this kid had just painted a ginormous fucking target right on his back, and he didn’t even know it.

When the class was dismissed for the day, he stayed in his seat until he thought everyone else had left. What he didn’t know was that you were perched in a seat three desks behind him as he let out a sigh that went right down to his very core and shook his head to initiate the paper ball rain. The whole throwing-shit thing was already getting old, so you were going to have to find something else to do to him.

He got up, and you reclined in your seat, propping your feet up on your desk. You purposely made sure your heels hit the wood loudly, and you held back a laugh when he flinched at the noise. Before he could leave, you called out, “Ey, Kankles!”

The first thing you saw in his expression when he turned around was that he was not afraid of you. His face was perfectly neutral but not _blank_ ; a thump doesn’t know how to blankface properly. Maybe that countenance was good enough for people down _there_ , but you saw the lines of irritation written subtly around his mouth and the mistrust in his eyes. He looked at you like you’d never worked harder than he had, and you wanted to laugh in his face. “My name is Kankri,” he said levelly. “Not ‘Kankles’.”

Shrugging, you said, “Whatevs. Not important. Do you know who _I_ am?”

He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of saying he did, you could tell. His jaw tightened, and you sat further back and waited. “I doubt there are many who _don’t_ know who you are,” he said calmly.

Well, that was that. At least he admitted it. “Then you know I’m gonna tell it how it is. You did a really fucktarded thing earlier.”

One of his thick eyebrows quirked up as he grabbed his tan satchel and secured it over his shoulder. “And what would that be, Meenah?”

You didn’t like how he said your name. It was like he was trying to prove he was on even ground with you, but you thought he was proving that to _himself_ rather than you. You nodded toward the board, where the exam scores will be displayed until your first lab scores came in. “That. You shouldn’t’ve done so well. People are gonna hate you for it.”

“I believe most people here hated me on sight. Do _you_ hate me for it?” he asked, gaze turning piercing. Despite how much he tried, he would never be able to see into your mind, because you had that thing under lock and fuckin key.

“Nah,” you said, and it’s funny that he didn’t think you saw the little bit of relief settle on his shoulders. So this kid _did_ know somewhere in his simple little mind he shouldn’t make powerful enemies. “I just think it’s gonna be pretty damn fun to see you get torn apart. I figured it’d be even more amusing if I got to watch you put up a fight, so there, now you know what’s coming.” You waved your hand dismissively towards the door. “Now shoo.”

“You cannot ‘ _shoo’_ me,” he snapped, and you were a little bit impressed, but it didn’t show on your face. “Not from the classroom, not from the school, and not from the Burbs.”

You tilted your head back and barked a laugh. “They _all_ said that, Kankles.”

Seething, he tugged on his bag and stormed out of the room; despite his adamancy over directing his own actions, he had followed your instructions pretty damn well. You took your time gathering your own things and headed over to the restaurant district to have lunch with Aranea.

A few days later, you found out the little bitch had the gall to file a harassment complaint against you. It took you five minutes in the Dean’s office to get her to delete it. You were sure he wouldn’t dare to do that to you again by the end of the semester. You didn’t care if he ended up respecting you or fearing you—either way, it was the same effect. He’d be gone before the year was over, just like the rest of them.

 

* * *

 

He made it to one year, then two. The third was a blur and his fourth was almost complete when he decided he had enough. It was a tough victory, but one of your finest. You relished it for as long as you could, letting it lift your mood and giving you the power to ace your final exams. Four years down, two to go.

However, within a couple of weeks, the triumph shatters, because Feferi is gone.

 

* * *

 

When you first heard that your baby sister was missing, you were walking through one of the many corridors of the hospital, heading towards your mother’s office to give her your dissertation. _She better not be in a fucking meeting_ , you thought, because you had a date later with a girl who actually _liked_ it when you lifted up the hem of her dress to see what was underneath. You wanted your mother to give you the money she promised you for finishing your paper before the deadline so you didn’t have to spend any of your own precious savings on the date. You plan to _feast_. You were one hundred percent sure there would be crab— _lots_ of it, and maybe some roe and calamari to complement it. Aranea might not have been the biggest seafood fan, but seeing you satisfied made her happy.

It’s weird that the two most important people in your life—your girlfriend and your sister—were the sweetest people you’d ever known, while you were just a selfish bitch. (That’s not a very nice thing to say about yourself, some may think, but you _loved_ you, so it’s okay. You knew how to look after others on occasion.) There must’ve been some sense in it, though; when you looked at the personality of your sister’s best friend, it was clear that her kindness called to his cruelty. Opposites might be a Peixes thing.

You entered your mother’s office without knocking, because you’d never once knocked despite how many times you were chewed out for invading her private space without warning. At that point, she’d learned to stoically accept the fact that you didn’t give a single fuck about her “boundaries”, but you still got a stern look from her every time you did it.

That’s how you knew something was wrong: she didn’t even look up from her computer.

If you were someone else, someone less bitchin’, you would’ve freaked out a little. Something would’ve sparked in your stomach, or ice would’ve shot through your veins. But all those phrases were stereotypical trash not worthy of explaining anything about you, and fear isn’t something you felt often. So when your mother didn’t look at you, you just shrugged and moved on, acknowledging her lack of reaction by planting your elbows on her desk, hard.

She didn’t jump like you hoped she would, but her eyes finally left the screen, sharply flitting over to meet yours. “What is it? I’m busy.”

You dropped the USB containing the thesis on her desk. The corner of her mouth twitched like it did when she was irked, and she didn’t move to take it. “You haven’t seen your sister, have you?” she asked calmly.

“Nah,” you said, shaking your head once. “Not since she went over to Ampora’s a day or two ago.”

“It seems that isn’t where she went,” she said, turning back to her computer. “I talked to Dr. Ampora and apparently his son told him that he was staying with us.”

 _Damn, maybe she finally grew up and decided to take a risk,_ you thought. Sweet, precious Feferi, who was a freethinking bane to her teachers and somehow still loved by everyone she came into contact with, lied about where she was. You were gasping and clutching your heart in surprise on the inside, you swear. “Where did she—?” You stopped as a possibility popped into your head. “Oh no she fucking _didn’t_.”

“I believe she did,” your mother replied, already on the same page without either of you having to say a word as a clue. “She’s been spouting nonsense about it for years.”

Your cutesy little sister, down in the Furthest Ring with the thumps and the criminals that are dumb enough to get caught. The lives of children up here were sheltered, you knew that for a fact, and down there they’d eat her alive.

“So has Ampora dispatched his Angels to find the twerps yet,” you asked, “or is he just sitting in his office with his head up his ass waiting for shit to fall in his mouth?”

“They’ve already combed the Burbs, so we know for certain they’re not here,” she said. She reached across her desk and laid a perfectly manicured finger on a link, dragging it across the surface and throwing it up onto her screen. “I decided to call off the search after that. They’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it.”

Something in that declaration didn’t settle quite right with you, but you shoved any uneasiness aside. “How are you so fuckin assured when you never even speak to the damn girl? You don’t know what she’s like.”

“And your interactions with her are usually done at a distance, so it’s not like you’re a Feferi expert.” Silence appeared, because you couldn’t exactly _dispute_ that, and your mother loved to hear herself talk so of _course_ she spoke after a few awkward seconds. “Listen, Feferi just needs to get this little rebellious stage out of her system. She’ll go down there and her romanticized view of poverty will be replaced with disillusionment, and she’ll come sulking back to the better part of society. It’s a learning experience.”

“What about Eridan? He’s his father’s heir, I’m sure Seymour ain’t happy about all this.”

Your mother snorted and continued to scroll. “Eridan would have to fuck up a _lot_ to get disowned, when you look at what a mess Cronus turned out to be.”

A bit of incredulousness began to build as the reality of it all sunk in. “So we’re just going to fucking _wait_ for her to come back?”

“Yes."

“What if she doesn’t?”

She paused, hand hovering over the surface of her screen. “I will give her a month. If she is not back before that time, then she will never be welcome here again.”

 

* * *

 

A month passed. Then two months. Then a season, then a year, then two years.

It’s pretty obvious they’re not coming back.

 

* * *

 

Calisa Ampora’s death unearthed a lot of shit. One piece of that heap was the pity you had for Eridan: mummy’s pride and joy who might never know she overdosed on mood stabilizers.

The empathy was only there for a minute—you didn’t have time to dwell on what others might be going through, since you were busy with your own job and patients. The kid was a sociopath, so any guilt he might feel would be gone in an instant anyway, so why dwell on it?

Well, it turned out you were forced to. Calisa didn’t OD—it was determined that something in the chemical makeup of the drug was fucking with her genes, rewriting bits of code in tiny ways that went undetected until it all flared and killed her.

Serenity was pulled off shelves faster than you could believe. You didn’t know what you were supposed to do at first—you’d been taking thrice weekly doses of the stuff since you were sixteen—but you guessed there was an unspoken agreement between you and your mother that you would remain on it, so she pulled some strings and you still got your doses on time every week.

And if it killed you, so what? It didn’t get Admiral Ampora until she was in her fifties, so you were sure you’d still have a while.

You thought of what a terror Eridan was back when he started developing GPsy and wondered if the little shit quit when he left or if he’d get cut off just like the majority of bucks. This could be what broke their self-imposed exile and brought them back home.

 

* * *

 

It’s not.

What brings them back is the beginning of an uprising.

 

* * *

 

Of course Feferi would get involved with a budding rebel group. You’re really not surprised at all in the Fef department, but what made you double take was Eridan’s participation in the whole thing: casteist, nasty, selfish Eridan who cared only for your sister and his image. Eridan, who you can tell is now half a foot taller even when he’s lying down; Eridan, who put violet in his hair for some fucked up reason, like some weirdo tat; Eridan, who has lost two liters of blood and may lose the use of his legs.

When you see your sister for the first time in over two years, she’s topless and covered in Ampora’s blood. Her eyes are blown wide, shaking hands wringing in front of her as she waits in a chair outside of an operating room. She looks up when you enter, expression guarded and lips parted. You’re relieved that you made it here before your mother, because she’d just have your little sis sent away, and you won’t let that happen.

“Come on,” you tug on one of her hands, and she meekly stands and follows you down the hall and into an empty patient room. What hits you first is that your sister has never been _meek_ , not for even a second in her life, and you wonder what the fuck they did to her down there to make her that way.

“I’ve been disowned, haven’t I?” she says in a tone that makes you think that her brain has been detached from the rest of her. Maybe she _hasn’t_ completely forgotten what she learned up here after all.

You brace your hands on your hips and sigh. “Yeah, shark bait,” you say. “A long time ago.”

“Fine,” she exhales, and you can hear the relief plain in her tone. “All I want is my share of the fortune, and I better get it because I could tell the media so much about what our mother has done. She’d be ruined.”

Blinking hard, you think that she better not try to grab any of _your_ share. “You’ll have to take that up with her. For now, just come back to my apartment for a while. She doesn’t have to know.”

If you do something nice for her now, she won’t take any of your inheritance. Feferi has always been a kind soul—she wouldn’t dare fuck you over after your offer of hospitality.

Her eyes flit towards the door. “I need to wait for Eridan to come out of surgery.”

“Hun, do you want to see his chart?” You wave your tablet through the air. “They’re putting him in a recuperacoon if he survives this. He ain’t waking up for a while.”

She gnaws at her lip with her top teeth, hands still twisting in front of her, and promptly bursts into tears.

You don’t remember her crying _once_ as a child. She was always a girl of happiness and whimsy, getting up quickly after scraped knees and whacking Eridan on the side of his head at the first traces of a wobbly lip. She whined, sure, but she’d never shed a tear, even at the end of _Finding Nemo_.

So you do what’s expected of you: you swallow your pride, step forward, and hug the little bitch. She’s gotten tall, but she’s still about two inches shorter than you, as it should be. There is more hair to her than there used to be, but she’s not as chubby as she was, and that probably has something to do with the big food shortage. You felt the hit the agriculture sector had up here, but it must’ve been even worse down there.

“It’ll be okay,” you say awkwardly, because you’ve never been one to comfort. If there were any other circumstances, you’d snap at her for being such a dumbfuck and tell her to go out there and _do something_ about whatever’s upsetting her instead of crying about it (weeping is practically a fucking sin around here), but there really is nothing she can do except wait. “I’ll take you home, it’ll be fine. Ampora is a resilient little shit, he’ll pull through.”

She doesn’t say a word as she moves away from you, adjusting a bra strap and sniffling. Your mouth forms a grim line and you sigh, taking your shirt off and handing it to her. There’s a camisole under it, so you’re not showing anything you shouldn’t be. Once she pulls it on, you wrap an arm around her shoulders and guide her out of the room and down the hall. As you walk towards the entrance, the pair of you get a lot of looks, since she’s supposed to be in another city-state and her pants are stained with crimson, but you glare at anyone who dares make eye contact with you as you escort her out.

“Do you know if they caught anyone?” she speaks quietly once she’s curled up on your couch. “From the riot?”

You shake your head and turn on the TV, dropping the remote near her head. “Look around for stuff, and don’t let anyone know you were there, because then they’ll bring you into I&A.”

“I know,” she says, sounding irritated. Her throat is still scratchy from the tears, but every other bit of evidence seems to have disappeared.

“Watch your back, girl, that’s all I’m saying.” With that, you leave her. You need a glass of something strong if you want to sleep at all tonight.


	12. ACT 2: XI- 73 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're one week away from the one year anniversary of Insurgency's publication, and I'm happy that I've been able to maintain a pretty regular updating schedule. My other fics can go months, even _years_ without an update, and yet here we are. Thanks to Sharktopus for looking this over beforehand!

At first, there was nothing. It was impossible to keep track of time, because in the recuperacoon you were in an induced coma, but sometimes things would leak through—a puff of breath on the glass above you, the warm hum of nanodes under your skin, the dull pain that sometimes leaked into your soul, like whispers from another world. You find out later that you were in that state for three weeks, but honestly it could’ve been a second or it could’ve been an eternity in terms of your comprehension.

Then suddenly, there was no more glass encasing you and the skittering of microscopic bots inside of you ceased, and you could dream again. Your visions were desperate and bloody because even though you weren’t quite ready to wake up, your mind was back on and it needed to deal with what you’d been through. You remember the vividness of it all but can’t recall exactly what you were dreaming about; you just know you wanted to wake up.

It all started to become hazier again, because someone must’ve noticed how disturbed your slumber was and did something with your medication dosage, and thus began your slow dips in and out of consciousness. You always fell asleep again before you could open your eyes. Sometimes you’d hear the murmur of voices, some deep and rough while others were light and breathy. Sometimes you’d feel something warm in your hand or on your chest or curled up against your side. Sometimes you’d realize that you felt something cold on your legs even though they were otherwise numb and your hand was itchy and your torso was stiff, and you sort of expected that but you didn’t know _why_.

When you actually wake up fully for the first time, you drink some water with a large hand on the back of your head and quiet words supporting you. Your father is finally allowing some gray to show in his hair, you notice, because there’s a bit of silver at his temples and lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Before he’d looked as young as thirty since he dyed his hair and used anti-aging creams, but perhaps his age was catching up to him. Before you could speak, he pressed a button and your eyelids were heavy once again.

Next time, Fef is curled up in a chair, knees tucked to her chest and blanket wrapped around her as she reads something on the screen of a tablet. It’s not your shared device, you note, but a different model—a newer one, by the looks of it. You want to ask her what she’s staring at so intently, eyes scanning the page with rapture, but your throat is dry and you can tell if you tried to speak something cracked and pathetic would come out, so you refrain. Within the minute, you’re drifting back to sleep without her noticing.

It takes a while for you to hold onto consciousness for a substantial amount of time. That’s no fault of yours, your father tells you, it’s all of the drugs and replacement blood you’re being pumped with. Apparently it’s good that you’re not awake for a lot of this. They’ll be taking you off a lot of the machines soon, and then you’ll be able to start becoming a person again.

When you’re finally in control of your own body, you get tested for brain damage and fitted for prosthetic fingers and you’re told you can’t get out of bed, can’t risk putting weight on your legs so soon. You’re worried that your muscles will atrophy but they say you’re on vitamin supplements for that and a physical therapist had been resonating them while you were unconscious. Fef comes in most nights, because she’s learned her mother’s schedule and knows how to avoid running into her, and she talks to you about the Heresies and what she’s been reading and when you’re strong enough, she slides in next to you and you browse them together, reading about revolutions and politics and the world outside your walls that no longer exists. The most ridiculous things make her eyes light up, because she’s already _miserable_ up here and she gets her happiness from history these days—“The _right_ history,” she claims, as if everything you were taught as children was wrong because of the information she’s found, when in reality it’s _emphasized_.

Right now, you are sitting on your bed, legs folded carefully in front of you so they’re crossed at the ankles but not too close to your body, waiting for someone to come in and take you away. You’re going back to your father’s apartment, the old Ampora penthouse, because you’ll be doing daily physical therapy sessions with a hologenerator and Cronus doesn’t have one of those at his place. When the door finally opens, it’s not someone you know but a faceless carapace, here to give you some pills and transfer your final readings to the main database.

“I already miss my morphine pump,” you complain right after downing your meds. There’s something deep and forlorn in your tone because you put it there. To add to the effect, you make your eyes shine and your bottom lip moves slightly outward to make a subtle pout, but the carapace has no pity for you. You’re not even sure the little robots can _feel_ pity.

“Mr. Ampora, the pain medication we prescribed will have to suffice,” it tells you in a smooth, genderless voice. “I promise you won’t be the tiniest bit uncomfortable as long as you rest and allow your body to heal on its own.”

(There’s truth to that, you know. Even without the really strong stuff, your mind is still foggy, and you’re glad for that; it’s not like you need all of your mental capacity right now. You just like being difficult.)

Huffing, you cross your arms over your chest and fall back onto the mattress, which is tilted upward like a chair. “I’ve barely left this bed in two months,” you mutter, and it’s true because you haven’t gotten up except for some PT sessions, “I think that’s enough. Anyway, wasn’t the bulk of the damage dealt with when I was in the recuperacoon with all the nanobots? It was pretty fucking _intensive_.”

“Patience,” it says. “If you don’t want to be back here within a week, you need to treat your body with care.”

It inserts its hand into the circular port at the foot of your bed so the final bits of data are downloaded into its systems. Then it comes closer to you, stopping and reaching out with both of its arms. “Please extend your right hand.” You do so; it’s not the one that got fucked up beyond belief. It takes your hand and turns it over to expose the smooth, hairless part of your forearm as well as your IV port. The carapace removes the tape holding it in place, tightly presses a gauze pad to the site, and quickly takes the needle out before putting the tape over the pad to keep the gauze in place. It’s fast, nearly painless, and doesn’t bleed like hell. Just like that, you’re no longer hooked up to any sort of machine.

The carapace leaves the room so it can find a station to upload your final file. A doctor will clear you for release, and then you’ll be out of here.

Now unbound by any tubes or wires, you rub at your eyes. It’s strange to do so without having to go under your glasses, but you don’t need them to see anymore; they decided to fix your vision while they were fucking around with the rest of your body. The next set of computer glasses you buy won’t be prescription. It feels weird to not have to push them up your nose constantly, but once you order some it’ll become commonplace once again.

Before you can decide whether or not you want to stand up, the door opens and you see a wheelchair poke through before the door tries to close on it. Someone on the other side curses, and even if you couldn’t identify them from that, you recognize the way he smacks the door with his hip to get it open. You always used to wonder if Cronus was actually a stripper by the way he knows how to move his hips, and somehow he manages to make _opening doors_ sexual.

You scoff at him before he can even greet you, turning your nose up and narrowing your eyes. “No fucking way. I’ve had _enough_ time with that thing.”

“It’s hospital policy,” he says, and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. What a complete bastard.

“You’re going to enjoy this so fucking much,” you seethe, fists clenching in the sheets. The two fake fingers on your left hand curl too far and dig into your palm through the fabric, and you wince and loosen them a bit. Fine motor control with them is going to be a process.

“If you badmouth me, I’ll be able to dump you on the floor,” he says cheerily. “Now come on.” He pulls up next to you, lowering the bar on the side of the bed and patting the seat.

Swallowing, you prepare to postpone. “Where’s Dad?”

“Talking to your doctor,” he answers, playing along. “Then he has to get your prescriptions and some other supplies. We’ll meet him at the car.”

You haven’t been in an actual _car_ in years. You doubt you’ll miss public transportation. “Is Fef coming over?”

Cronus clenches his jaw before smoothing his expression over. You understand that he doesn’t like her, but you don’t give a fuck—she’s been your best friend since you were three, he’s had a long time to learn how to deal with it. “She’s gonna bring you dinner, since Dad and I both have to work later.”

That seems to be all the stalling you can do, because he reaches down and tears the blankets off your legs, exposing them in all their glory. You’ve got some new incision scars and the skin on your shins is lighter because the majority of it got scraped off, plus they’re contained in scaffoldings of black metal. The braces run from a ring around your waist to your feet, looping around just above your heels to take some of the weight. The metal rods connecting everything are slim but incredibly strong, lying almost flat on your skin. They’re annoying and clunky and they’re not supposed to come off for at least two months, which means you’ll need them even after you’re done with crutches.

You doubt that’ll _actually_ happen. It’s unrealistic, especially after your dad had you fill out all that paperwork reinstating you into the Angel initiative.

“Come on, chief,” Cronus snaps, getting impatient, “move your glutes.”

“I’m going, alright? God.” Moving to the edge of the mattress, you cautiously move your legs over the side and slowly lower them to the floor, careful not to put any weight on them. Gulping, you wonder how you’re going to make it into the chair without any help, as you feel like you’re going to hop off and end up a heap on the floor. Your pride stings, but you’re probably going to have to ask your dickbag brother for assistance.

It turns out that, while he _is_ an unrepentant douche, he isn’t going to make you beg. Before you even open your mouth, he’s looping one of your arms over his shoulders and getting up under you, lifting and twisting so you plop down into the chair. You don’t say thank you and he doesn’t act like he just saved you from a bit of pain; he just takes the handles and starts pushing you out of the room.

Getting into the car is easier than getting out of bed, somehow. You wedge yourself between the door and the interior, swing your legs into the foot space, grab the handle on the ceiling just inside the vehicle, and pull yourself up out of the seat and then lower yourself into the other one. Cronus starts the car before leaving to go take the wheelchair back inside.

This isn’t what dad used to drive. His old car was black and sleek and while this one still retained a similar body shape, it’s silver and the inside is rearranged, with one large bench seat in the back and two more against either side behind the door. There’s a panel in the floor, positioned in the middle and that’s where you guess a lot of the AI interface and traffic tools are. These days, the traffic and motion centers are engineered in the entire skeleton of the car rather than clustered in a sensory ball on the top, and you’re glad because _damn_ that was unattractive.

In about ten minutes, the doors on either side open. Cronus climbs in through the same door you used while your father gets in the other side before leaning over to the instruction panel and hitting “Home”.

There’s no jerky start like there is in buses—the car smoothly moves forward, beginning a path that’s still familiar to you.

 

* * *

 

Entering the penthouse is strange when you know you’ll never see your mother in it again. She was away from home more than your father was, but you still can see her sitting at the dinner table or reclining in her favorite chair or rummaging around in the freezer for ice cream. You bet her captain uniform is still hung up in the master bedroom closet; your father may act cold and bitter, but he’s really a sentimental fool. He just doesn’t want other people to know that.

There’s a new couch in the living room, and it’s a purple, rounded crescent instead of the boxy leather thing you used to have. The new addition somehow looks less comfortable, but you know it’ll feel nice once you sit on it. Your father wouldn’t have bought it if it wasn’t comfortable. The TV is the same, spanning pretty much the entire wall, besides a new speaker system that you see embedded in twin columns next to it. The door to the hologenerator sits on the far side of the room, shut securely with the control panel next to it glowing slightly. You were already pretty familiar with it before because you used it for training purposes, but now that you’ll be using it daily, it seems your relationship with it is bound to become a bit more intimate.

You near the kitchen, leaning heavily on your crutches as you listen to your dad rummage around in his bags, muttering to himself all the while. Cronus went up to his old room immediately—they haven’t stated so explicitly, but you can tell your brother hasn’t been in the penthouse for quite a while—leaving you alone with dear old Dad.

“Can I take a shower?” you ask tentatively. Usually you’re not so timid with him, but ever since you got back you feel like you have to tread carefully; you know how he gets when he’s truly _mad_ , and that would just cause even more damage to your already fucked up body.

“I’ll adjust the head so you can sit on the shelf and put this,” he unzips one of the outer pockets of his bag and pulls out your prosthetic care kit, “on the counter. You’re not supposed to shower with them in.”

“I know,” you say, rolling your eyes. While he does that, you shuffle into your room and find that the hinges squeak slightly from disuse. “Lights,” you command, and they flicker on, illuminating the place where you grew up.

Your bed is still immaculately made, pillows fluffed and sheets unwrinkled. Your glass gun case in the corner displays three of your best rifles and a training pistol—Angels are supposed to be pistol-bearers, but you’ve always been a rifle guy to your core until you accepted the contactor’s gift a few months ago, and you figured that you could be a sniper instead of close-range—and while most of the things in your room are covered in dust, the case has protected your weaponry. You bet there are at least four upgrades for the computer sitting on your desk by now, so you’ll have to purchase a new one of those, if your dad will give you the money. You bet you’ll have to clean out your entire closet, seeing as it’s been years since you fit into any of this stuff.

For a couple of minutes, you stand in the doorway, taking everything in and waiting for your dad to finish fixing up your bathroom. Soon, he calls out that it’s ready, and you hobble across the hall.

Since you hadn’t gotten a good look at a mirror since getting taken back up here, it’s a shock to see your reflection has blond hair. You knew it would, of course. Before putting someone into a recuperacoon, their head gets shaved because everything is accelerated in the controlled environment, and if they kept it, your hair could’ve ended up reaching down past your shoulders. However, now it’s slightly shorter than you usually keep it, light and shiny even though you know it’s greasy from not having been washed in a few days. You run your fingers through it—your right ones, you don’t trust your left yet—and think that it feels exactly the same.

Leaning heavily against the counter, you find the little buttons under your skin that detaches each prosthetic finger and push them. There’s a slight _click_ and _hiss_ as each move out of their respective port. You take both and put them carefully in the case before grabbing the plugs and securing them in the holes. The device they rebuilt your hand with is strange: a hunk of metal serves as the case, with biowires snaking out of it and connecting to your nervous system so you can feel things like pressure and pain. They took patches of skin and had them fuse with the damaged tissue and grow around the metal after shaping it to look like it was naturally a chunk of your hand. The fingers are removable because it’s not good for them to be in water a lot, as they don’t have a coating of skin—they’re just strips of metal, built intricately but not for vanity. You’ve seen people with them before, and sometimes there are designs carved into them like tattoos, but yours are gray and blank.

The braces on your legs are designed so they handle 70% of your weight. You figure since no one is watching, you can stumble into the shower and sit down on the slab in the back that’s usually cluttered with shampoo and conditioner bottles (it seems your dad moved them all to the floor). You were told that you shouldn’t make a habit of showering with them, but they _are_ waterproof and supposedly it’d be easier the first few times if you kept them on.

Gritting your teeth in preparation, you pitch yourself forward and extend your arms so you’ll land with your palms flat against the glass panes. You shuffle a few steps forward to get the rest of you closer to the shower and find that it doesn’t hurt _too_ much, so you carefully open the door and ease yourself in, keeping a grip on shelves and the wall until you’re lowering yourself down onto the ledge.

“Shower: on,” you command once you’re situated, legs stretched out in front of you and head back to avoid the initial cold spray. “108 degrees.”

Water immediately rushes onto your skin, and it’s chilly on your lap but within a few seconds it begins to run hot.

It feels _amazing_ to be in an actual shower instead of the awkward bathtub back at the hospital with a nurse watching over you. The water pressure is better than you’ve had in years, there’s something _cleaner_ about the spray, and you’re sure you could sit in here for as long as you wanted and the hot water would never run out. You dip your head in the stream and run your fingers through your hair; it feels lopsided on the left side, and you think it’ll take a while to get used to that.

There are brand new bottles of your favorite shampoo and conditioner, and your stomach does a little twist. You wonder which family member bought your stuff; you’re surprised they remembered what you liked after this long. You squirt some of the silvery goop onto your hand and get to scrubbing.

Washing everything else doesn’t take much time. You get to take a good look at your torso wound from the godforsaken coatrack—it has healed well, the scarring pale and jagged. You were given cream to start putting on the holes on either side of you so they’ll vanish like all of your other miscellaneous cuts and bruises did. Even the ones that you got working for the BHG (the bullet wounds in your shoulder, numerous faded cuts, everything that could be considered marred and ugly) are gone now, soothed by the low-grade sopor in the recuperacoon.

When you’re about to get out, you accidentally elbow your conditioner off the shelf and onto the floor. Cursing, you reach down to pick it up just as you hear your father call out, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “just knocked over a bottle.” You take it and put it behind you before you realize something. “Wait, have you been standing outside the door?”

“…No.”

Sighing, you say, “Dad, there’s no need to hover, I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously,” he rebuts, “you cannot, or else you would not be in this position.”

Your eyes narrow even though he can’t see them and you bite back, “I survived longer down there than _you_ would have, so shut up.” It’s really not your best comeback, but you’ll use ‘doped up on meds’ as your excuse.

He _does_ shut up, but you think he’s still standing outside the door, waiting for you to fuck up. Exhaling slowly through your nose, you say, “Shower: off,” and the spray ceases.

This is going to be even harder now that everything is slippery. You reach up and grab the towel that’s draped over the side of the glass and dry everything you can before wrapping it around your shoulders. You’ll have to do a more intensive job on your legs in a minute in order to get the water out of all the nooks and crannies and make sure the braces are completely dry.

Planting both hands on the small ledges on either side of the shower, you slowly lift yourself up and shuffle towards the door. It takes longer than your pride likes to sit on the lid of the toilet, legs beginning to throb. You reach for your prosthetic case, removing the fingers and sticking them back into their proper ports before painstakingly toweling yourself off from the waist down. Taking the clothes you placed on the counter earlier, you start putting everything on.

It’s all too small. You’re going to have to buy an entirely new wardrobe because of how much you’ve grown—your plain blue shirt is skintight, hugging every bit of you and exposing about three inches of skin between the hem and the top of your pants. The sweatpants you pulled on used to be a bit big on you, and they still fit decently around your hips (though they’re kinda tight) but they look like capris now, the bottoms reaching about mid-shin.

Seeing as you’d rather not go into public until you’re off the crutches, you’ll have to make do. Scowling, you grab the heinous devices themselves from where they’re wedged between the sink cabinet and the trashcan and hobble out into the hallway.

You almost run right into your dad, and he starts defending himself but you interrupt him. “Do you think you have some clothes I can borrow? These are too small.”

He looks you up and down before nodding and heading toward the stairs. You’re glad you got shoved into the bedroom on the first floor so you don’t have to traverse them. Instead of waiting awkwardly in the hallway, you shamble over to your room. You’re picking up on walking with crutches pretty fast, mostly because your therapist taught you how, but it’s _really_ annoying because you don’t have a leg to put weight on, since both of yours are out of commission. You have to quickly move each crutch and lean your weight on the bit of brace under each foot before shuffling forward slowly and repeating the process. You thought that maybe you could try doing them one at a time like they were actual legs, but you feel like that would end with you careening into a wall. They offered a walker, but you decided crutches would be better because you’re an idiot. 

When you finally make it to your room, you plop down in your desk chair (you yelp as one of the metal struts manages to pinch your ass) and boot up your computer. Since it hasn’t been turned on in a while, it takes longer than it used to, and just as you open up the internet browser your father comes in with some clothes. “This stuff is small on me, so it should fit you,” he says, tossing the shirt and pants onto your lap. One is a plain white lover-beater with sweat stains (eugh) and the pants are an old pair of violet polies from the eighties. He leaves to let you change, and you have to do the embarrassing pants-wiggle all over again to get them over the fucking scaffolding on your legs.

In a few minutes, Cronus comes in, carrying something behind his back. “I gotcha something,” he claims, smirking.

Raising an eyebrow, you swivel around in your chair, not sure what to expect. Maybe a bomb. Or a porno. “And what might that be?”

He tosses a box onto your lap, and the corner of it hits a main support on one of your braces and a shock goes through your leg, making you wince. It feels almost raw afterward, but instead of dwelling on that you pick up the box and take a look. “…I would’ve loved to have this while I was _bored_ _in the hospital,_ you know.”

Your brother shrugs, like he didn’t buy you a tablet that costs more than what you made in the last year. “I was mad at you, it’s not like I could just give you something like this _immediately_.” He reaches over to ruffle your hair, and you think that’ll only work now if you’re sitting down, as you’re finally taller than him. “Now, I’m heading to work. Musical work, not district work, thankfully. I’ll see you tomorrow, chief.”

Within half an hour, you’re getting a goodbye from your father as well, plus a dosage of medication and a promise that Fef will be here soon. So she doesn’t have to wait forever for you to answer the door, you decide to take your new tablet into the living room and dick around on it there so you’ll be closer to the front door. The plan seems foolproof until you realize you can’t exactly carry the box.

You do what any sane person would: shove it down the front of your pants. The top of the box sticks out of the waistband and the edges dig into the insides of your thighs whenever you swing forward, but you don’t drop it.

Plopping down on the couch sideways makes it so you can lie out and extend your legs. You’ve been using them a lot today and you’d never admit this out loud, they’re getting pretty sore even when you have them propped up like this. It killed you enough, being cooped up in a hospital bed for months, but now that you’re home, you know it’ll be even _harder_ for you to just hang around and do nothing. You figure if you take it easy for a week or two, you’ll be able to hit the gym and start reviewing before you take your big exam. You’re starting to see your foray into the Furthest Ring as a final field trip before you get your wings, because labeling it as anything else would be counterproductive. Despite your two and a half year break, you think you’re still on track to get that perfect score you were promised when you were young.

Your possible score isn’t really the problem, though. What you really need to figure out is if you still want it.

The unboxing of the tablet makes you feel a bit giddy, because it feels nice to have a piece of good, solid technology under your fingertips. It’s smooth and black and fits perfectly in your hands, as if it were _made_ for you, and in the box there’s a chip that can be implanted in computer glasses for additional cloud storage and _oh_ it’s _wonderful_. This may be the nicest thing Cronus has ever done for you.

You spend the next twenty minutes or so downloading apps and creating new accounts for things. You don’t know what happened to Callon Actium, but you can guess, so it wouldn’t be good to log into his old stuff, and you feel like you’ve outgrown your old ones from when you were younger. The only thing you keep is your Pesterchum account, because you don’t have an identity tied to it and before you went down into the Furthest Ring, you put in safeguards to make it untraceable.

When Fef finally arrives, you’re playing a game of 3D Tetris. You pause it and call out, “Just a moment!” as the system announces her arrival. Your crutches have fallen on the floor, so you pick them up and get yourself situated before scuffling over to let her in.

“Guess what I brought,” she says, grinning up at you.

Your eyebrows draw together in confusion. You were told she was bringing food so you didn’t think it was a secret—

 _Oh_.

“Saigon S&T?” you ask hopefully.

She nods and pulls on the bag from behind her back, and you eagerly shift aside to let her in. There must’ve been something in the way you moved that looked strange because you see concern settle on her face. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” you say, only a little bit irked, and she looks like she’s going to protest but then she realizes there’s no point to it. “Let’s eat on the couch.”

She carefully sets the bag on the coffee table and by the time you make it over and sit down, she’s pulled out the cups of tea and boxes of sushi. “Be careful eating,” she warns. “You’re still pretty acclimated to Furthest Ring food, and this is pretty rich, even if it’s just sushi. I had a few stomach aches myself when I first got back.”

“Yeah, okay.” This is so great, they don’t have sushi down there because fish and other aquatic delicacies are so hard to come by and you missed it _so much_.

You turn on the TV for some background noise as you eat. Some Pasadenian show is playing—a sitcom about four dead famous authors living together in a one bedroom apartment—and neither of you are really paying any attention to the action or witty dialogue.

“Slow down,” Fef warns as she reaches over and plucks one of your salmon rolls off your plate. “No one’s going to take your food, there’s no need to shove it all down your throat at once.”

“No one’s going to take my food, huh?” you question, giving her a hard look. She just giggles and deposits one of her tuna rolls onto your plate.

You do end up stopping after eating a mere five or six pieces, as your stomach has begun to protest weakly, so Fef finishes off your plate. Despite the ache in your abdomen, you feel satisfied, leaning back into the couch cushions and patting your belly. “Mmm that was good. Thanks, Fef.”

“My pleasure,” she says, and you know it was, since she loves sushi just as much as you do. You want to prop up your legs again, but that would mean booting Fef off that couch, and you don’t want to do that.

As if she read your mind, she gets up, clearing the plates and taking them into the kitchen to throw away. “You should probably lie down, stretch out a bit.”

“Nah,” you say, grabbing a pillow from the end of the sofa and putting it on the table. “I can do this.” One at a time, you pull your legs up so they’re propped on the pillow. “Nice and comfy. Now, tell me about what compelling bit of literature you read today.” You crane your neck back to look at her as she walks back into the room.

“I haven’t _just_ been reading Heresies,” she says, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. She’s not really annoyed—you can see the affection in her expression. “I’ve been looking up a lot of stuff, and earlier I happened upon a few articles that said swimming is good for leg injuries.”

There’s a pause while you comprehend this, and she sits down next to you in the interregnum. “You just want an excuse for me to go swimming with you.”

“ _No_ ,” she laughs. It’s free and she snorts once; you missed hearing her giggle unrestrained. “It’s good, I promise. I got it cleared with your doctor and physical therapist and they said it’s a _great_ idea.”

“That’s because they’re terrified of your family,” you mutter, and she smacks your shoulder. You give her a wounded look. “Fef, I’m still delicate.”

She sighs, flopping back into the couch cushions. “Either you’re like a little glass doll that can barely move,” she says, “or you’re entirely healed and ready to take on the world. You can’t play both sides.”

“It depends on my mood,” you protest, rolling your eyes, “and right now I don’t really wanna do _anything_ , so for all intents and purposes, I am a newborn kitten in terms of resilience.”

One side of her mouth tugging up, she grabs the scruff of your neck, and you pretend to grow limp in her touch, leaning against her side in a boneless state. Your eyes nearly close as she releases her grip and she plays with the hair at the nape of your neck instead. “So _how_ much pain medication are you on, exactly?”

"I take a milligram of hydromorphone every couple of hours, plus some luxaproxin,” you purr, looking up at her with hooded eyes. You used to get the former through an IV and since it isn’t available in capsule form like Serenity was, you have a tiny case of syringes. You’re going to be slowly weaned off it from here on forward, so you’ll survive on over the counter stuff by mid-September.

There’s something dark and confused in her expression at first, and before you can ask her what’s wrong, it’s gone and she’s laughing. “That explains it,” she says, fingers still running through your hair. It hits you that you’ve missed her, despite seeing her everyday; there’s just something different about sharing a house (and a bed) with someone. Sitting here with her, affection visible in every line of her face and in the movement of her hands, feels _right_.

Lower lip sticking out in a small pout, you implore, “Explains _what_?”

“Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Her hand leaves the back of your head, and you whine a little bit, but she resists you. “Now, are you up for a serious conversation?”

Pout becoming more refined, you say, “I’m an invalid, Fef, not a retard.”

“Shush,” she says, still smiling but sounding nervous. “We haven’t really _talked_ in months.”

Sitting up, you adjust your legs into a more comfortable position and coax, “Go on.”

“I think I’m going to move back into our apartment,” she reveals, playing with a strand of her hair and not meeting your eyes. “I have the Heresies, you’re out of the hospital, and living with Meenah is becoming un _bear_ able. You can come down and visit, of course, and you can join me once your physical therapy dies down, but for now I think this is for the best.”

“You’re leaving me,” you blurt out, and you feel ashamed for the betrayal that wells within you. The shock helps clear a bit of the fog in your mind.

She shakes her head, hair bouncing all over the place. “No, Eridan, I stayed with you for two months. I’ve… been putting something off,” she sighs, threading her fingers together, “and I _really_ need to do it, but once I do, I know I won’t be able to stay here anymore. I’m already on pretty shaky ground as it is. Because of it, I haven’t been able to leave the Burbs, since I probably would be denied passage back up. I stayed this long _for you_. I couldn’t just leave you here when you could barely get out of bed! You can come back when your physical therapy lightens up, and until then you can visit.”

As she spoke, your scowl twitched into something more and more upset, and you venture, “Do you realize that we’ve seen each other every day for the past two and a half years?”

Reaching over to pat your knee lightly, she says, “I think the space will be good for us, honestly. We need some breathing room, and I… need to think about some things, I guess. Plus, near the end we got kind of dysfunctional, seeing as we both ended up lying to each other.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you say, holding up a hand, “stop. What do you mean by ‘lying to each other’?”

She shrugs lightly as if this wasn’t a slap in the face to you. “You lied to me about Cronus, and I lied to you about Aradia.”

 _Why the fuck_ would your idiot brother even _say_ something to her? They never liked each other, how did they end up having a conversation? And now she was lying to you _too_?

“ _What_.”

Sighing, she laces her fingers together and puts them in her lap. “I know you two were in contact, but I don’t know how or when.” There’s a little lit in her voice that tells you she’s angry, and your eye twitches indignantly. “And Aradia figured out we were bucks, so I told her what she wanted to know because I _trust_ her. It was only a few days before the raid, anyway, she didn’t know for long.”

“And I wasn’t talking to Cronus for very long either,” you shoot back, fists clenching. One of your prosthetic fingers is a bit twisted, and when it curls it rubs against the other one with a high screech. “I only went to him when I was trying to figure out if my mother was _dead_ , have a little fucking _sympathy_.” She’s speechless for a moment, guilt welling in her eyes, so you go on, “I had _reason_ to do what I did. What right did you have to endanger us by telling your little gal pal about who we are?”

“Aradia isn’t a danger to us!” she protests, remorse gone from her expression. “If you would just _listen_ to me—!”

She slams her fists down on either side of her in frustration, meaning for the both to hit the couch, but she must’ve forgotten how close to each other you’re sitting since the one on the left hits your leg _hard_. White-hot shock travels through your bones and you automatically hunch over, gritting your teeth and letting out a strangled yell as your hands move to hover reflexively over her spot. She must’ve hit one of the screws in your femur.

When the pain recedes, she’s rubbing your back, and you can feel the slight tremor of her hand. Your eyes flit to her face; she’s looking away from you, lips trembling and mortified eyes on the carpet. Fef almost never gets this shaken, and your demand for an apology dies in your throat. Sighing, she mumbles, “God, Eridan, I’m so sorry.”

“It was an accident,” you say, forcing yourself to shrug lightly and sit up straighter despite the steady throb she’s created.

Her touch is suddenly gone from your back, and then she’s burying her face in her hands. You see her shoulders shake slightly as she takes a deep breath, and it takes you a moment to realize what’s going on. When you do, your eyes widen, and you wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into an embrace. Her face nuzzles into your neck, and you feel her wet sniffle. “Hey,” you try to comfort, reaching with your other hand to pet her hair, “Fef, come on, it’s okay.”

She presses closer. You feel more tears hit your skin and you try your best to hold her and make sure she knows you’re not mad. Every time her shoulders heave, it feels like you’re getting stabbed with that goddamn coatrack all over again. Only a few minutes later, she stops herself and takes the hem of your dad’s old shirt to wipe her eyes, creating mascara stains.

“I’ve—” She breaks off to swallow the rest of her tears. “I’ve just been really stressed lately. And I know what you’re going through is worse—”

“We’re not playing a pity game,” you interrupt, taking her hand and squeezing. “You never once wanted to come back here, and now you’ve been here for two months. It’s okay to be unhappy about it.”

With a ragged sigh, she lets her head hang. You prepare for the speech that she has to get out of her system. “I have an appointment with my mother tomorrow,” she explains, “and it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her. I know I’ll be disowned, but there has to be _some_ catch, and I can’t figure out what it is. Meenah has been carping at me for not being successful and going to university like she did and she’s a horrid roommate; I appreciate her taking me in but living with her is the _worst_. And I miss Aradia and Kankri and Kanaya and all of them. I want to see my friends again. Then…” She swallows again. “Eridan, when I had to get you out of the rubble, those were absolutely the worst moments of my life. But just now, stupid little me had to go and remind us both how _dreadful_ that was by _hurting_ you—”

Tugging her closer, you lean to kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. It’s sappy and gross and you could very well be overstepping her boundaries, but you have to let her know you love her without saying the words. “It just lasted a second, Fef, really,” you console, and you hope your breath doesn’t stink, since you haven’t moved your face away. Before you can decide whether or not to recede, she pitches forward slightly, laying her forehead against yours and closing her eyes. You watch her think for what feels like an hour, seeing her lips part and eyelashes flutter and the faint pulse in her neck beat.

Finally, she opens her eyes and stares straight through all of your bravado. “You’re still injured, and you’re probably going to deal with it for a long time,” she says slowly. “Don’t let your father force you into the Angels. If you promise me you’ll actually think and be careful, I won’t let my mother overpower me.”

“Sounds good,” you whisper, smiling. It’s a very small one, but her eyes dart to your lips and you think she might kiss you, but all she does is squeeze your hand and pull away.

 _Don’t let my father force me,_ you think, exhaling quietly. It’s easier said than done, but you’ve gotten stronger. You’re not a tiny fourteen-year-old boy anymore that can be pushed around. You’re recovering, and you can’t let your dad’s ambition fuck that up… even though you’ve already been reinstated. It’s not like you’re regretting that.

You imagine the prestige, the prowess, the power. You’ll finally earn the respect that Vriska used to taunt you for lacking, and who knows, maybe you could help Rufioh and the rest of them. You’ve grown up imagining yourself inheriting the frosty uniform and all that entails, and you’re not sure you want to give it up, despite knowing Fef _really_ wants you to.

So she’ll go back to the Furthest Ring, and you’ll remain here for however long it takes for you to get back on your feet. The thought is upsetting, but you do something that’s become natural to you once again: you find that emotion and shove it into a box at the back of your mind, reveling in the emptiness its removal leaves behind. When negative emotions attempt to strangle you, it’s always better to be empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the "yay, consistent updating!" tone of the first note, I kind of don't want to say this down here, but I have to. Within the next month and a half-ish, I'm going to be pretty busy with two things: HSWC (I've already written 60,000+ words for it, and there are many more to go) and starting college. Up until now, I've pretty much been running off chapters that I wrote during NaNoWriMo last year. Since November, I've just been editing what I have and writing some more every once in a while, and sadly to say what I've written for Insurgency is mostly mid-Act 2 stuff, so we still have to get there. The next chapter is halfway finished, and I hope I'll have it up around this time next month, but the next few are untouched. I have them planned out; the words just haven't been written. Hopefully I'll be able to do NaNoWriMo again this year, but since I'll be dealing with my first semester at university, I don't know how well that's going to work.
> 
> I just thought you guys should know what's up if you don't get an update next month. I'm going to try to post! Hell, I'll probably even clean up a oneshot from this 'verse I have sitting in a word document and stick it on my writing blog (sonicsymphony.tumblr.com, if you needed a reminder). And I'm not going on hiatus or anything; I just thought I'd give you a little warning for the 1.7 of you who care. Thanks for reading!


	13. XII- 71 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I did warn you that I might disappear for a while.
> 
> I never expected to drop off the face of AO3 like that, but college is a shitton of work, and I could complain about being an engineering major all day long but I'll spare you. This chapter was really, _really_ hard for me to write for some reason, and I hope that future chapters won't give me nearly as much trouble. I'm still very excited about Act 2 and all of the coming action, because this is where the fun starts.
> 
> Even though I didn't update Insurgency for a few months, I did post three ficlets from this 'verse on my fanfic tumblr (which, I will remind you, is sonicsymphony.tumblr.com). If I take a long time with the next chapter, just drop into my askbox and poke me, and I'll take a break from Super Smash Bros (hey, college isn't _all_ work) to try and make some headway. Thanks to Sharktopus for the beta!
> 
> I hope you all had a lovely holiday season, and Happy New Year!
> 
> (Narrator: Feferi)

It’s been months since you had dreamed of a father you never knew, but now your streak was broken. Drowning was commonplace in the dreams that involved him, but the one from last night was different. It was _normal,_ almost; you were small again, perhaps five or six years old, and he was taking you to the Wall like Aradia did months ago. He held your hand as you rode the elevator upward, smiling softly in a way your mother never could. As always, he looked different from every other father you’ve ever dreamt of, besides his round eyes and petite nose that you’re sure you inherited. Tonight, his hair was the color of honey, his eyes a deep blue like the sky as dusk is approaching. He was tall and thin, and when you wake up, you can’t really imagine your mother with a man like him; she’d break him in half. His palm felt warm, and you didn’t feel anticipation or fear. You felt like you were going on an adventure.

But when you awake, you realize you are _not_ going on an adventure. No, the Burbs are too bleak for flights of whimsy and wonder. When you leave Meenah’s apartment for the last time, everything you’ve reclaimed as yours gathered into a large backpack that makes your shoulders and back ache, your fights with both her and Eridan echo in your mind. Even after you push those thoughts away, you remember your destination, and you feel as if you’re walking to an execution block.

You must keep your chin up as you enter the building. Your mother holds her court in an office in the medical district; her wing of the structure is adjacent to the hospital, in the genetics segment. You wonder if she’ll be expecting you—you’ve put this off for too long, and she’s probably grown angry that you haven’t yet come to bow your head and submit.

And an angry Glenda Peixes is the worst thing in the world.

As you go to knock on her door, a throat clears behind you. Whirling around, you face her receptionist, sitting prim in his seat. “Do you have an appointment?” he asks.

“I’m her daughter,” you say, resisting the urge to bite your lip. “I don’t _need_ an appointment.”

“You’re not Meenah,” he snaps, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says condescendingly, and you can tell he’s not sorry at all, “I can’t let you through.”

You’ve already walked past him, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? When you were younger, you would’ve followed the directions of someone older and in a higher position of power than you, but now you simply don’t care. You just turn back around, and without knocking, you push your way into the office.

It’s not dim like you remembered it. The black chairs on either side of the desk don’t match the rest of the décor: the room is bright, many accents of gold and fuchsia tracing the walls, and even a magenta palm tree sits in the corner. As it was before, the ceiling is made of translucent marble, and sunlight jets into the room filtered only by that unique skylight. There’s no one in here besides your mother, and she doesn’t even look up to acknowledge you—however, the annoyance from that action turns to anger when you see what’s behind her.

That’s _yours_.

The trident—polished, unbent, and mounted on the wall above her ostentatious oaken desk—is what brings your gaze away from your mother. You purse your lips, thinning them into a displeased line. Before seeing that, you’d planned to be civil, even borderline cheery, towards your mother, because you wanted to leave this office on decent enough terms with her. Since she has the trident, that means she’d been through your apartment and seen how you’d been living for the past two years, and you feel violated. With the statement on her wall, she’s declared war.

“I’m so glad you could finally make it to see me, dearest,” she says in that musical tone of hers, voice cold even when speaking the sobriquet. Before she can ask you to sit, you slide gracefully into the chair across from her desk, fighting to keep your shoulders back and chin high. “Are you—?”

“Enough with the platitudes,” you interrupt, smoothing your skirt with your palms. You wish you could say you’re playing on your own terms right now, but the coldness in your tone reveals that you’re using the rules of the Burbs. You don’t like that at _all_ , but it’s the only way she’ll listen to you. “I know I’ve been gone for a while, and a lot has probably changed, but I came here for one thing.”

One of her slim eyebrows raises. “And what’s that?”

You want to swallow some of the nervousness lodged in your throat, but she’ll see that, so you simply say, “Money. I know what you do, Mother. I know secrets that the media would _love_ to have. You know better than anyone that the people up here would _devour_ you—”

She scoffs. “I’m practically God in the Burbs,” your mother drawls, and the lit in her voice makes you wish the trident would fall off the wall and run her through. “Everyone knows better than to touch me. If you thought that threat would carry any traction, you’re more of a dimwitted little guppy than I thought you were.” She leans across her desk, cupping her chin in her hands and planting her elbows firmly on the glass touchtop. “My dear, I stopped loving you when you abandoned me, but I do have _some_ pity for you. Two million is what I’ll give you, and then you’ll never be able to come to me for another handout again.”

Blocking out some of the other implications of her words to deal with later, you think of the receipt you found after Eridan bought you shrimp for your birthday back in February, six long months ago. It was about $600 for a pound; inflation rates in the Furthest Ring differ from those in the Burbs, so two million dollars could be gone _fast_. “Twenty.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Twenty million dollars,” you say, sitting up straighter and folding your hands in your lap, expression stone.

“Excuse _you_?” she corrects herself.

Indignant, you brush your hair back from your face before saying, “That hardly even _touches_ the massive fortune you’ve set aside for yourself.”

The only indicator of her distaste that’s visible is the slight curling of one side of her mouth. “You don’t make the terms.”

“Twenty is _far_ from the hundred I was promised upon my graduation from university,” you say, drawing on Eridan’s characteristic arrogance to make you seem indomitable. “I’d get even more if you died. Remember that I can tell the press things that they’d be all over, things that could make sure there wasn’t a penny of your pile of cash left.”

“As I already said, they know not to mess with me,” she says, face perfectly clear of her thoughts. “But fine, I’ll give you twenty, just to ease my conscience."

 _You don’t_ have _a conscience,_ you think, jaw clenching. She’s one of the two people that can piss you off by giving you exactly what you wanted. “Good. Put it into my old account within two minutes of my departure.”

She shrugs nonchalantly, as if to say it’s done. “Is there anything else you wanted?” she asks, neutral.

( _I wanted you to be a_ mother _to me. I wanted you to treat me like a_ person _instead of just a younger version of you. I wanted you to support me, no matter what I did. I wanted you to be a better person than you turned out to be. I wanted you to love me unconditionally, like mothers are supposed to_.)

You shove aside those particular thoughts and swallow a question about your father that was rising to the tip of your tongue. “No,” you tell her, getting up.

“Good.” She types something in, fingers making no noise as they lightly touch the glass. “The elevators now know not to let you back up, not even to see Eridan.” It’s the first time she’s mentioned him, and you don’t like the sound of his name on her lips.

“Fine,” you say, short and clipped. “Goodbye.”

Just after you shut the door behind you, she erupts into peals of high-pitched laughter that somehow still sounds musical. She cackles and giggles and you lean against the wall, listening to her laugh at you. She has a reputation of being stone, of having no sense of humor and that’s kind of true—she laughs at people she finds pathetic, as long as she can cackle in private. You think if anyone else ever heard her let go like this, they’d drop dead.

With your heart in your throat, you wrap your arms around your torso and hurry from the building. You’ll have the last laugh.

You arrive at the bank about ten minutes later and walk inside to make a withdrawal. The woman at the counter fights you at first, but you leave the bank with a grin on your face and a plastic card that Sollux can easily make untraceable, every dollar of your inheritance perfectly in place. Your mother will not have access to any bit of your small fortune, you’ll make sure of it.

After one other stop—a bakery you used to frequent—to pick up some food to bring down, you head towards the elevator station. Before walking in, though, you can’t help but look back at the Ampora penthouse up the road. You wish your last meeting had gone better (fighting with him and crying on him were _not_ things you’d planned to do), but he’ll come down to see you once he has more maneuverability.

He has to.

 

* * *

 

For a cracked, dirty slab of thick plastic that hardly keeps out the chill, the Maryam-Vantas apartment door seems rather imposing. The 469 carved into it stares you down, criticizing you for being gone for so long without a single word. You wonder what’s been said about you on the news—your mother and Eridan’s father have managed to keep your escapades quiet so far, but the press down here must’ve said _something_ about the youngest Peixes and Ampora returning from their “studies abroad”. Kankri or Porrim would’ve been able to draw the parallels, seeing as they’re smart people; it’s just…

What will they think of you now?

Taking a final deep breath, you make yourself ring the bell. It takes too long for someone to open the door, and you spend the time counting your breaths, making sure you’re ready to be as kind and warm as ever.

Then the door finally opens, and reality moves into focus; Kanaya is poised in front of you, shoulders back and lips pursed. Her makeup is smudged around her eyes, like she rolled out of bed and didn’t bother to gussy up, and her hair is sticking up more than usual. Her clothes are still gorgeous, though, crafted from scraps of fabric she’s found all over Canaveral—her skirt is angled and ruffling, giving off a slight shine as sunlight slips past you into the doorway, and her dark shirt bares her midriff and a piece of steel pierced through her navel.

She’s always impressed you by being so put-together, and even though her lack of immaculate makeup sends up a warning flag in your head, you know not that much has changed. “Kanaya!” you say happily, smiling your biggest grin and jostling the bag at your side. “I brought breakfast.”

Her eyes blow wide, lips parting, expression torn between something heartbroken and horrified and hopeful. (You wonder if she would’ve recognized you if you allowed your hair to return to its original strawberry blonde hue, but that doesn’t matter so much now since you decided to continue dyeing it even after arriving back in the Burbs.) Then her astonishment is gone and her face becomes guarded, even though you can see bits of her true emotions shining through the façade. “No,” she says. “How… you’re dead. They found your bodies, ran blood tests. The data was released to the public.”

So that’s how Seymour tried to get rid of you. Kill the identities, kill the insurgents. It probably won’t take you much to convince Kanaya that you’re still _you,_ but you promised yourself that you’d never lie to them again. “I’m alive,” you assure her, a bit breathless. “Kanaya, I promise. See?” You reach out, poking her in the arm. She sways a bit.

“Who’s at the door?” Porrim calls from inside.

Swallowing, Kanaya makes the decision to tell her as well as speak to you. “ _Feferi_.”

And then you’re hugging, fingers curling in the fabric of each other’s shirts as you feel her laugh breathlessly into your hair. She’s been a good friend to you, and it feels wonderful to hold onto her for a moment. Just as it’s always been, she’s taller than you, and she smells nicer than all of the panache Burbites who put on too much perfume. When you let go, she says, “Come in, come in,” and Porrim is barreling towards you.

“Holy shit,” she says when you make eye contact. You only have time to notice that she looks so _tired_ before she swallows you up too. “Shit, they said you were dead.”

“I think we have a lot to talk about,” you manage to get out through the lump that’s suddenly appeared in your throat.

Porrim pulls back and looks at you like she’s never seen you before. That’s when you remember what she knows, and you wonder how she’ll react to there being more to the story Eridan originally fed her. “Kankri!” she yells towards the bedroom. “We have a visitor.”

The two sisters lead you towards the bar, and you notice that the wall is more scuffed by swinging feet than you’ve ever seen it; you guess Kanaya hasn’t bothered to paint over the marks in some time. Even though the stool you sit on is uncomfortable, you feel more at home than you have in weeks. Months, even.

You put this meeting off for much too long.

Just as you place your bag of pastries on the table, Kankri and Karkat slump into the kitchen, dressed like they weren’t planning on stepping outside of their bedrooms today. Karkat takes one look at you before stating plainly, “I knew you weren’t dead. Prison, maybe, but not dead.”

You hug him, and you hug Kankri too, but something seems off about him. “Feferi,” Kankri sighs, and you hear the relief in his voice but he also sounds so _defeated_ , “we’re low on food. We weren’t planning on eating breakfast, but maybe we can find something to whip up—”

“No,” you protest immediately, reaching into your bag. “I brought some stuff! Be careful while eating them, because they’re richer than what you’re used to, and your stomachs probably won’t be happy with you if you eat a lot. I know it took me a little while to adapt.”

Their confusion wears off when they see the food: you set out muffins, scones, and cinnamon rolls, still slightly warm from the oven. That’s when you realize that all of them—even Kanrki and Kanaya, who didn’t really have any extra weight to lose—look thinner. _Gaunt_ , even.

If they’re famished, you can get them food. It’ll be easy; you’ve got millions of dollars in hush money and your mother is no longer constantly watching you. Though the rations system is in place down here, once you figure out a way to get past your mother’s ban on elevator travel, you can go up to the Burbs to get food for them. This could be a way you start repaying them for everything they’ve done for you and Eridan.

When you take out the box, you say, “Plates? Forks?” Kanaya heads to fetch them.

You motion for them to pick first and once everyone has loaded a pastry onto their chipped plate, you take a scone. No one eats yet; you can feel their questions looming but you can’t bear to gush out an explanation unprovoked, so it’s silent until Karkat asks, “Where did you get these?”

“A bakery,” you answer, “but not one here. I promise they’re really good. Well, as long as their quality hasn’t diminished in the past few years. Eridan and I used to get stuff from this place all the time.” As if to prove they’re not poisonous or something, you cut into your scone with the side of your fork before putting into it in your mouth.

 _Mmm_. This’ll be your last taste of fresh berries and quality wheat for a while, so you try to savor the bite. When you look up from the pastry, they’re all staring at you. “Still heavenly,” you reassure them.

They still don’t move, and the atmosphere somehow managed to shift to morose while you spoke. You don’t know why they’re suddenly hesitant to look you in the eye, and before you can ask what’s going on, Kankri takes your hands, fork and everything. You quirk an eyebrow, confused and taken aback.

“Feferi,” he says softly, “I want you to know that I am so, _so_ sorry about Eridan. If there was anything I could’ve done to save him—”

“Oh,” you say, finally realizing why mentioning Eridan was such a trigger. “Kankri, no. Eridan’s fine. He’s alive.”

Astonishment lights on all of their faces, like they’d never once considered that Eridan lived. “When you were talking to me,” Karkat starts, looking guilty, “you were making it sound so awful, and after they released your deaths I though there was no _way_ …”

 _Well, here it goes,_ you think. “It _was_ bad, Karkat. I’ve never seen someone in so much pain. But I called the right people, and they saved him. Up in the Burbs.”

Letting out a harsh sigh that makes everyone turn to her in surprise, Porrim says, “Look, I’ve known from pretty much the beginning that Eridan had ties to the Burbs. He stayed up there for a couple of months when he was younger, so he would’ve still been in their records. That must be why they took him.”

“Eridan’s a _buck_?” Karkat bites, swinging from her back to you and back to her like he’s watching a particularly fiery debate. “Why didn’t you say anything? Either of you?”

“Woah, I didn’t say he was a buck,” Porrim starts, but you cut her off.

“He is, though.” You straighten your shoulders almost automatically, like you’re expecting a blow. “And so am I.”

Surprisingly, it’s not as big of a bombshell to some as you thought it would be. “Just because you lived up there for a little while doesn’t mean you’re one of them,” Porrim says firmly.

“Hey, did you forget about the rest of us that weren’t in on this? _We_ didn’t know,” Karkat seethes, gritting his teeth while Kanaya just stares at you, stunned yet again. “Don’t you think that’s information that you’d tell your friends?”

You knew there’d be anger (and possibly even rejection) when you arrived; that’s why you’d put it off for so long. Karkat glances at you, and you see his jaw clench before something a bit apologetic slips into his expression. “Karkat,” you say quietly, knowing that he doesn’t _really_ want to be mad at you, “we never wanted to deceive anyone, but it’s what we had to do.”

“ _Why_?” he snaps.

Before you can answer, you notice the truth dawning in Kankri’s eyes. “Oh my God,” he breathes.

You know that look; you’ve gotten it since the day you were born. Thinking of his four year escapade at the university and his similarity in age to Meenah, you smile sadly, saying, “You knew my sister before you knew me, didn’t you, Kankri?”

“I…” he swallows. “I don’t know what to say.” His eyes dart to his family, like now you’re suddenly a starving shark and they’re minnows trapped in a pool. Then he blinks, and the regular Kankri returns, face instantly neutral. You know he learned that up there. “No, it’s not my turn to speak. It’s time for you to start talking.”

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the worst. You try to smile, but you know that it appears strained. “Coldra Caesar never really existed,” you tell them. “What you call me _is_ my name, though the only reason you know it is because I was freaking out and let it slip. But at least you won’t need to relearn anything, because you _know_ me. You really do.” Your mother would be ashamed to hear the quiver in your voice, so you don’t will it away. “Everything personality-wise that you know about me and Eridan is true. We’ve never faked anything, and our beliefs are solid and will always align with yours. I don’t want you to think differently of me just because I have another name. And, well, more than that, but it’s not important right now. What’s important is that I don’t want to hide anything from you all anymore.” You laugh nervously. “My name Feferi Peixes. Please,” you plead before any of them can make any noise from their open mouths, “please let me explain.”

“Feferi,” Kanaya interrupts anyway, reaching over to take your hand with (you hope) support, “you don’t need to behave like you’re waiting for us to reject you. ‘Peixes’ may be a vile name but you’ve proven who you are. You came back to us, so you’re home now.”

 _Home_. The word sends a thrill through you, because even though you don’t necessarily like the Furthest Ring itself, you love its people: their tenacity and warmth through their struggles is inspiring, and even though your romanticized view of them crumbled once you arrived, your infatuation had turned to love.

Not everyone is Kanaya, though. You see Kankri and Porrim exchange a look, and you know that they’d accept you too but they truly know what ‘Peixes’ means. If you want them to support you wholeheartedly, you’ll need to explain more. That’s what you came here to do anyway, so you’re ready.

“Don’t you want to know why though?” you ask Kanaya, looking back over at her. “If I were in your position, I’d be demanding _all_ of the details!”

“Oh, we’re definitely curious,” Karkat says, and you can sense his anger still, but now that it has simmered down it’s simply making him snide. “Don’t let Kanaya convince you otherwise.” He must see something in your expression that makes him feel guilty because he looks down at his feet and kicks the wall lightly, creating another scuffmark. “But we do like you, Feferi. I don’t think that’s going to change because you come from a line of raging asstarts.”

You let out a small laugh at the insult, but the pang in your chest is sad. Undoing all of the lies you fed them probably won’t be easy, but it would be harder if they didn’t want to _love_ you. You swallow to steady yourself, then you begin. “You met us almost as soon as we came down, because Eridan had to go to the hospital. Remember the lye incident? It was the first time we turned on the sink, and we weren’t familiar with the cleaning process down here so he didn’t know the water needed to run a while before the sink was usable. He just bent over to wash his face and _wham_ , he woke me up screaming.”

“We could hear him from up here, you know,” Porrim snorts, tossing her hair back as she does so. “Kankri told us about Eridan when he got back from his shift that night, but we didn’t link the incidents together until we ran into our half-blind neighbor.”

“I guess screaming is one way to say hello,” you giggle, despite Eridan’s pain not being funny to you. “We were such naïve kids, and in a way, that experience was good for us because it taught us that it wasn’t as peachy keen down here as it was in the Burbs. We had our reasons for leaving, of course, but we thought it’d be a _breeze_ living down here. But we’d already messed up on the first day, and that was quite a blow to his pride. And mine, I guess, but I really didn’t consider myself prideful until I left. Even though he would’ve been happier immediately going back up to the Burbs, he made the decision that we should stay.”

“You had no say in it?” Kanaya asks.

Shrugging, you reply, “Well, Eridan was the one that needed medical attention. I figured it should be his decision whether or not we called the whole bet off.”

Kankri raises his eyebrows. “Do you mean a literal bet or just the super fun trip into poverty?”

“There _was_ an actual bet,” you say sheepishly. “He said I’d never be able to last ten minutes with the people I ‘defended’ so often, and I didn’t think he’d even be willing to set foot down here. He took offense to that, because Eridan takes offense to _everything_ , and we settled into details—we’d stay two months to make it less of a vacation, we’d take as little with us as possible, and we wouldn’t tell anyone where we were going. If we left before the two months were over, I would never be allowed to bring up the Furthest Ring and its people again. If I won, he would put off taking his Angel exam until he turned eighteen.”

“Wait a sec,” Karkat interrupts, kicking the wall again as he shifts towards you. This time, you think it was unintentional. “I thought people didn’t get selected for the Angel Initiative until after they finished their secondary schoolfeeds. Eridan probably finished his right before you left, right?”

“Yes,” you say, “but Eridan’s father runs the program.” Almost bitterly, you add, “He was _special_. His father wanted him to be the youngest person to pass the exam, and he wanted him to get a perfect score.”

“So a lot of what they say about the examination can’t be true then,” Kanaya says. “No father would want to put their fifteen-year-old child through… _that_.”

“I don’t know what they say about the exam itself down here,” you say uneasily, “but I’ll have Eridan tell you all about the Angel Initiative when he comes back down.”

“Okay, so Eridan had a legacy in the Angels,” Karkat says flippantly, like he isn’t completely aware of what that _means_ , “and your mom may be a crazy eugenics lady, but I’m sure you could’ve become some hotshot in the genetics world with her name. And yet,” incredulousness seeps into his tone, “you left all of that behind because of a fucking _bet_.”

“Eridan’s reasoning is a mystery to me, but I had other motives for leaving,” you say defensively, wincing a bit when you realize how petulant you sound. “I remember Aradia once saying to me that she was jealous of the legacies the people in the Burbs were a part of, but I could never understand that because I _despised_ my family and their role in making everyone miserable. I still do. I wanted to get far away from my mother and her stupid genetic modification company and the pressure that came to follow in her footsteps. I achieved that rather well, actually. I’ve been disowned.”

“I thought people only got disowned in old, shitty movies,” Karkat interjects again, and Kanaya jabs him in the ribs with her elbow before nodding at you to continue.

“Anyway, I also wanted to leave because of Eridan. I’m sure you remember him more towards the beginning because he was such an _asshole_ —and still is, I guess—but I promise you, he… he’s grown a lot as a person. He was raised to be a machine, cold and cruel and arrogant without a single care for anyone else. He developed genealogical psychosis before anyone else I’ve ever met, and his mother always used to say he was a land mine when she thought he couldn’t hear, just waiting to be stepped on. His father was putting pressure on him to take the Angel exam when he was _fifteen_ , for Christ’s sake, he was too young for anything expected of him, and he was cracking. Every day, I was losing more and more of the boy I’d known since before my baby teeth fell out, and it was _killing_ me. I thought that if I could get him away from the Burbs, he could become the person I always knew he could be.”

And that’s it, you’re done. You’ve rambled for too long, you think. “So that’s why we left, and I will never regret any of it. Neither does Eridan, even though he’s spent the past couple of months lying in bed and pouting about having broken legs.” In an attempt to move on to a happier subject, you pick up your fork and take another bite of your scone. Perkily, you say, “We can keep talking over breakfast!”

Slowly, they begin to eat. Seeing the expressions on their faces makes you think of their first time in the Burbs, when their eyes took everything in with such gluttony that you’re surprised there was anything to look at afterward. Just like that time, though, Kankri isn’t surprised by the rich taste, but you can tell he appreciates it.

“ _Fuck,_ what did they bake these things with, stardust? The tears of a virgin?"

“Feferi, these are spectacular!”

“I’ve never tasted anything like this… Goddammit, you laced them with cyanide, didn’t you?”

You spend a minute or two simply enjoying the food and the comfort that their presence provides. As you chat, you learn about what happened while you were gone. Once you and Eridan were pronounced dead, the owners of the apartment complex sold all of your stuff (or at least, the stuff that your mother hadn’t commandeered), but Porrim doesn’t think anyone else has moved in, so getting it back should be simple enough. You tell them you’ve been wondering what Aradia’s been up to, and Kanaya tells you that she’s taken over the family’s store at Derse completely, since Damara has been disappearing for days at a time without providing an explanation. You’ll go visit her later today, you decide.

Soon enough, Kankri starts talking about his job at the hospital, and that makes you remember a question you wanted to ask him. Before he can go off on a tangent about the lack of good healthcare down here, you say, “Kankri, I have a medical question for you, since I’m out of practice and no one at the hospital would give me a straight answer.”

Nodding, he waves a hand through the air nonchalantly. “Ask away.”

“Is eight milligrams of hydromorphone a lot to be on when you’re two months past a bad injury?” you inquire, hands twisting together in your lap. “Eridan said his dosage was a milligram every couple of hours but that was a lot to me, seeing as I just remember it being for the first couple of days after a regenerative coma.”

Thick eyebrows pulling together, Kankri looks at you worriedly. “Yes, Feferi, that _is_ a lot. Is he in _that_ much pain?”

“I honestly don’t think so,” you sigh. “I mean, it was awful at the beginning, and he’s still sore and uncomfortable, but hydromorphone is the strongest pain medication made. He’s going to have a dependency issue.” You know he’s on some other medication too, but you don’t know what it is. It would be nice if you could find out, because then your hypothesis would be easier to prove, but you think Kankri may be able to help you anyway. “How much do you know about Serenity?”

“Not a lot,” he admits. “There was a lesson on it in a pharmacology class I took, but it was just chemical make-up and such. The only time I really started thinking about it was when that Calisa woman—” He pauses, eyes going wide as the pieces click into place. “Eridan _Ampora_. Feferi, please don’t tell me they were related.”

“She was his mother,” you say solemnly. “He adored her, and he hadn’t seen her since we left over two years ago. He’s been… well, something shifted in him when he heard the news. But Kankri, there’s another issue.” Taking a deep breath, you kneed the fabric of your skirt to distract your hands. “Eridan had been taking Serenity since he was eleven. We kept buying it from Derse but after all of the controversy with his mother, we couldn’t get more than a few pills, and he ran out right before we went back up.”

You see him come to the same conclusion you did. “They’re keeping him sedated because they don’t want to put him back on Serenity.”

Biting your lip, you nod. “He’s tired all the time and he slurs his words a bit and he always wants to be touching someone or cuddled up to them; he’s acting _drugged_ , and it’s too far after all of his surgeries and time in the recuperacoon for it to be necessary. He _makes sense_ on it, though, and I’m worried that they’ll keep him on it as long as he’s mostly lucid.”

Kankri sighs and takes a small bite of his muffin before responding, “Eridan will have to realize and help himself, because there’s really nothing we can do.”

“We could tell him,” Porrim suggests, looking at Kankri like he’s a moron. “He might be an ass about it, sure, but at least the idea would be planted in his head.”

“I guess I can say something about it next time I talk to him,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Maybe by then his dosage will have changed and we’ll be worried for nothing.”

“Hopefully,” Kankri says before going back to eating. You do so as well, finishing off your scone and drinking a glass of water. When the meal is dying down, Kankri brings up something you’ve been interested in hearing about. “We’re still having meetings, but now they’re at a different venue every week, and they’re bigger than ever. We’re really gaining traction, Feferi, and I’d love it if you’d come back.”

The decision is instantaneous. You spare no thoughts to your mother, Eridan, or the Burbs as you say, “Of course I will!”


	14. XIII- 65 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit over two months isn't nearly as bad as last time's pause, so I'll take this as a victory. Even though I finished the chapter last week during my spring break, I haven't been able to post until now, since I've had my own Hell Week consisting of multiple exams and group presentations (including Calculus 2, which I got out of half an hour ago; ugh). Now, I'm going to celebrate being done by posting this and baking a cake.

_“Hold your position for ten seconds… nine… eight… seven… six…”_

Though the woman isn’t with you in the hologenerator, her form is. She’s tall, nearly six feet, and that’s accented by the fact you can’t really stand up straight, plus you’re leaning back on your ass and she’s on her knees next to you. Her hands are placed on the bottom of your right foot and the vulnerable part of your thigh that’s just above the back of your knee, a slight vibration in the air around the incorporeal form letting you know she’s trying to keep your leg in place as you stretch it back even if she isn’t really here.

It’s strange to think that the woman this program was modelled off has probably been dead for a century. She’s an advanced form of AI, part of the physical therapy module you’ll be completing over the next year, and being vulnerable like this in front of a computer program is much easier than being vulnerable in front of an actual _person_. No one actually gets to watch your session, but there’s data being constantly collected in order to best estimate your recovery time and what aspects you need to focus on.

You have a long way to go, and after a week back home, that’s really starting to sink in. A big chunk of healing was done while you were in the hospital, sure, but there’s a lot that can only be done while you’re awake. At first, that meant staying out of the public eye for a while, but at this point you’re fed up with staying inside like an invalid while there’s so much to _do_.

As the lights of the hologenerator dim and the session ends, you allow yourself to sit in the darkness for a few minutes, legs trembling with exertion. Momentarily, you consider going down to the Furthest Ring to see Fef—it hasn’t been that long since you’ve seen her, but you already feel like something is missing from your life—but then you’d probably have to face everyone else too, and you don’t think you’re ready for that.

No, today you’ll go to the Angel Initiative Headquarters.

(And avoid your father every second.)

You eat some breakfast, take a dose of meds, and use your tablet to hail a cab so it’ll be downstairs when you get there. As you walk out the door, you glance at your crutches, leaning against the wall in the living room. It’d be more comfortable to use them, sure, but they’re much more obvious than the stiff gait caused by your braces. You’re supposed to be on them for at least another month, but that’s for optimum healing, which is for weaklings who don’t have your level of pain control. You walk out the door without looking back again.

The cab is by the curb, identifiable by its light blue paint job. You immediately head over to the empty vehicle, then input your destination; it announces that you will arrive in seven minutes before speeding off.

There’s a lot of traffic today—you pass a total of ten cars as you drive. Since the Burbs are sparsely populated when compared to the Furthest Ring, it’s rare to see more than four or five on the road during your usual trip to Angel Headquarters. Saturdays are for meetings, though, and you went out at around 11am, which is a good time for brunch, so you assume people are heading all over the city to attend appointments. Hopefully your father will be away at one and not at headquarters, because you really don’t feel like running into him and explaining why you’re back early. He’s been reasonably serious about your recovery going smoothly, and despite thinking he’d be proud of you for trying to go straight back to training, you’d probably be ushered back into the apartment. That’s too _boring_.

The Angel Initiative building hasn’t changed since you last visited it—it’s still twenty-four stories of glass and steel, modeled like an old, enormous cathedral in shape only. Though the panels are glass and you know they can be seen out of from inside the building, onlookers only see white, as it’s textured to look like marble. A stained glass window in the center above the large entrance doors shows the symbol of the Angels in gold: a swooping depiction of wings, three swirls and a point on each side, reaches out to embrace you. In an old culture long forgotten, it’s supposed to represent hope.

Not anyone can just walk in. You’re apparently still in the records, because when you place your hand on the handle and pull, you can feel the metal pressed against your palm warm slightly before there’s a soft click and the door opens. The cab pulling away behind you is the last thing you hear from outside before the door shuts behind you.

There isn’t anyone in the front room. It’s just an entrance area, where there are pretty tables with gleaming obsidian tops and real ivy curling up the walls. The room is supposed to look overgrown but elegant, and the live plants are supposed to show any visitors that there’s money behind this operation. Light pipe organ music plays in the background, keeping with the church theme that’s only stuck around to spite the Archbishop, and you walk in-step with it as you head for the elevator.

Paintings of angels line the hallway to your destination. They’re not members of your force, of course, but the biblical kind—angels with golden hair and arms outstretched and thousands of eyes. They come in all shapes and sizes and sexes, but have one feature in common: the Angel Initiative sigil is painted onto their foreheads. Though you were raised to call it “hope,” you’ve heard some of the true Faithful call it the mark of the beast. Most of them avoid your lot, and that’s fine, since they don’t deal with common law anyway; the church has its own justice system for people that fall under its umbrella. Anyone who never officially burned their bridges after getting involved—whether they’re a cardinal, priest, nun, or just a member of the congregation—has to answer to the Archbishop if they break any of Canaveral’s laws, as well as any of the church’s own set. Priests are the lawyers of the church, and Gareth Makara is the judge even if he claims the only true judge is God.

You remember a conversation you overheard between your father and Fef’s mother years ago. They’d been in the Peixes’ foyer, drinking scotch poured over ice as you and Fef tried to listen in on their plans. It had turned out that they were only talking shit about Makaras; despite Glenda's close relationship with the Archbishop, she wasn’t a member of the Faith, and she often discouraged people from joining his congregation. “If you want to publicly worship a god,” she told your father, the ice in her drink clinking against the glass as she swirled it, “then you should worship me.” She cackled like a razor blade on piano strings and said something else you didn’t catch, but her tone sounded vicious.

Worshiping Dr. Peixes was something your father seemed to have no problem doing. The Angels’ mockery of the church is an old feud, sure, but your father has played it up a bit in order to amuse her. That’s where the paintings came from, and the Archbishop destroys at least one every time he comes to visit; a replacement of it is printed and ready to go within minutes each time.

The elevator doors open within a second of you pressing the button; it was already waiting for you there. You want floor eighteen, which contains the training area and gym. You figure you’ll work out for an hour or so, see how much you’ve lost in muscle mass and stamina. Working for the BHG did you some good, improving your accuracy and keeping you in some shape, but even with all of the therapies and treatments they gave you while you were in the hospital, you’re sure you’ve fallen from where you once were.

There are a few other Angels and trainees in the gym when you enter, but they pay no attention to you so you do the same to them. Your dad printed you another ID last week when you were officially reinstated, so you head over to the check-in station in the middle of the room and swipe your card. A small click tells you that the glass case under the counter is unlocked, and you pull out a monitor, clipping it to the collar of your shirt. It’ll keep track of your heartrate, exertion, repetitions, and anything else that needs to go on your file to show how much you’ve been working out. Though if your father looks at your file later he’ll see that you’ve been here, you doubt he’s going to notice.

You try a few different machines, staying away from a lot of the ones that are made to improve leg strength and focusing on working on your arms and core. You start to sweat about five minutes in, and this makes you think that your stamina has gone to shit because the basic shit you’re doing should _not_ be tiring. You’re drenched by the half hour mark, despite your multiple trips to the water fountain. Frustrated with yourself, you head over to the bench press station and decide to start small with fifty pounds. You slide under the bar and are about to start when someone asks, “Need a spot, kid?”

Glancing back, you see someone you haven’t seen in a very long time. Raphael Abraxas has worked closely with your father for a very long time, and because of that, he’d been around a lot when you were growing up. He gave you your first rifle as a gift when you were five, and he’d overseen the majority of your training back before you jumped ship. He’s a good fifteen years older than your father and has to be nearing retirement at this point, but from this angle, he’s buffer than ever.

“Sure,” you answer, drumming your fingers on the bar. Your metal ones make a sharp clanging sound and you wince, embarrassed. Abraxas doesn’t react, so maybe he didn’t notice. With a huff, you pick up the bar and start.

You do twenty reps before settling the bar down. “Child’s play,” you comment to Abraxas, trying to hide the fact that you’ve exerted yourself with that bit of weight. He claps you on the shoulder, bites back a comment you’re sure was going to be rude, and heads to the other side of the gym. You wonder why he came over to you in the first place if he was just going to spot you then go, but you guess he saw everything he needed to in that bit of time.

A bit unnerved, you turn in your monitor and grab something a bit more impressive: a splicer.

Being an Angel isn’t just about being in shape and shooting well. It’s also about using the various tools that allow you to get around fast and unnoticed. It’s been a while since you’ve used one of these, though the scrambler gear you used to sneak up here undetected months ago is a rudimentary version of the Angel tech, with only a single function. The splicer will hide you from any cameras and microphones too, but it’s mainly supposed to help with agility. You pocket one and head for one of the rooms attached to the gym.

Unlike the special area back at your dad’s apartment, the hologenerator isn’t the main point of this room. Though most people use it to create landscapes and targets in this maze of platforms and walls, you won’t really need the embellishments today. You could make it look and feel like a city street if you wanted to, since that’s where you do most of your work, but it doesn’t make a difference how you’d maneuver. Using the panel on the wall outside the door, you set the lights to dusk and turn off other atmospheric settings before heading in, making sure to lock the door behind you. Clipping the splicer to the belt loop on the small of your back (there’s a specific pocket for it on a regular Angel uniform, but right now you’re just in slim pants and a plain, long-sleeved violet shirt), you flick it on and dash towards the ten foot tall wall in front of you.

You make it up on your first try. Your boots are Angel-grade, and the material on the sole is meant to react with the electromagnetic field generated by the splicer to propel you up most surfaces as long as you have enough momentum. You can’t quite reach the top and just run over the wall like you used to, but you’re still able to get a firm handhold on the top so you can pull yourself onto the platform. The program pushing and pulsing around you, invisible, reads your every breath and movement in order to anticipate what you’re trying to do, and you need to remember the actions you need to perform so it’ll work like you want it to.

Jogging to the edge of the platform, you leap across to the next one, about fifteen feet out and five up from the one you were on. Your jump wasn’t powerful enough to carry you all the way across so you hit the wall just above the top, knocking all of the air from your lungs, but you manage to claw your way up, relying completely on arm and core strength. It’s pitiful that you have to lay there for a minute, flat on your back and wheezing. _Fuck, Ampora, get your shit together. Get up._

There’s a ladder leading up to a viewing point near the ceiling of the room, about twenty feet upwards. You don’t entirely remember the room’s layout, so as soon as you have your breath back you head towards it, ascending quickly and silently. Once you reach the top, you turn and sit just to the left of the ladder, letting your feet dangle into empty air.

The room isn’t as large as you remember it being, but maybe that’s because you’re no longer a child stuck in this maze. The twists and turns of the multiple paths lead around in a disorganized fashion, ultimately bringing itself around to the same door you entered. The ground is a mix of concrete, linoleum tile, and dirt; all are deep black in color. The walls, on the other hand, are stark white, and you’ll have to set the room to cleaning mode when you leave, since you can already see the scuff marks your boots have left on the first wall. Seeing as this is a training course, there are three paths that loop to the exit, all concentric. You’ll take the shortest one.

You climb back down and allow yourself a deep breath before starting the course in earnest. You climb walls, leap across gaps, climb between platforms. There’s pain in your legs almost immediately—the throbbing starts in your right ankle, the one that was compound fractured, then steadily moves up your shin as a twinge in your right knee makes itself known. Like always, you identify the causes of your pain and lock them away in a separate corner of your mind to deal with later, and anything that could hinder you fades into the background. The course takes four minutes to run, which is such a shitty time; you used to be able to do it in a minute and a half. You’ve been conservative, however, because you know you’re not up to peak performance yet.

The last portion of the course is a drop. You’re supposed to get a running start and then tuck and roll into a standing position, as if falling twenty-five feet is nothing. If you tried to do that now, you’re sure you’d break your neck because of how out of practice you are. Instead, you do the pathetic, safer thing and lower yourself down, holding onto the platform with your fingertips and turning twenty-five feet into nineteen. It’s still quite the distance for your legs to handle, but you think you can do it.

When you let go and hit the ground, feet first and knees bent like you were taught, you realize what a dumbass you are.

 

* * *

 

There’s something wet on your face. Your legs feel like they’re screaming. When you hit the ground, you knew it’d hurt a lot, so you tried to lock the pain away in advance, but the stress that focus put on your mind (combined with the pain) made you black out. The initial pain has faded before your eyes blink open, and you have no trouble getting rid of the rest of it. Sitting up makes you feel dizzy, but you do it anyway, allowing yourself to sit for a minute and assess. You reach up to feel under your nose and find out that the wetness is blood; you must’ve gotten a nosebleed somehow. It’s already stopped in the thirty-ish seconds you were out, and you don’t really have anything to mop the blood up with, so you use the palm of your hand, then wipe the excess on the wall. You’re cleaning the room, anyway, so the blood smear won’t be suspicious.

For some reason, your only source of worry comes from knowing Fef would be worried about you if you told her about what just happened. She’d say it wasn’t normal, that you need to stay confined to the apartment and your crutches until you’ve really healed. Hell, maybe she’d even try to get you to come back down to the Furthest Ring with her all over again. Sighing, you rid yourself of those thoughts only to think about how hard Vriska would’ve laughed at you if she’d seen you fall. According to Fef, she’d been in bad shape too after everything that went down, so you make a mental note to try and get in touch with her later.

You leave the room, trying very hard not to limp, and use the panel to initiate a cleaning cycle. There’s no one left in the gym, but you think you hear some activity in one of the other side rooms. You don’t go to check it out, instead heading for the best restroom in the building, the one located on the next floor up.

Why is it the best? It has a hot tub, and _fuck_ that sounds nice right now. It’s empty, and you lock the door behind you to make sure it stays that way. You strip down, tossing your clothes in the corner and laying your towel right below the raised rim of the tub. You consider taking off your braces so you don’t have to do the tedious job of drying your legs around them later, but you figure your legs would turn to toothpicks after all the training you’ve been doing, so you keep them on.

You lower yourself into the steaming water gently, keeping a strong grip on the metal railing until your ass is firmly on the ledge with a jet pushing water straight into your spine. The headache that appeared when you woke up fades slightly, and hopefully inhaling the soothing steam will help your body realize everything’s alright. Once you feel situated, you tilt your head back and reach for the light switch on the side of the tub, dimming the ambiance down until it seems like candlelight. Using the same panel, you go through a soundboard until you find the sound of waves, and you close your eyes, imagining you’re out to sea.

Before you know it, the lights are coming back on and a voice is announcing that you’ve reached the healthy amount of time in the tub. Reluctantly, you rub a hand over your eyes and pull yourself out, coming to sit heavily on the rim. Reaching down, you take your towel, drying off your torso and pleased about your decision to not get your hair wet. When you dry your legs, it feels weird applying any pressure to your skin—it’s like you’re pressing on a bruise—but your meds aren’t supposed to wear off for a while, so when you get up and your knees don’t buckle and you don’t faint again, you figure you’re fine.

Cronus is waiting for you when you leave the building. The second he sees you, he asks, “Where the hell are your—”

“I’m fine without them,” you mutter under your breath, looking at the ground. “I had the braces tightened so they support 75% of my weight instead of 70%, so I’m alright.”

He sighs and shakes his head disapprovingly. “Whatever you say, chief,” he says, even though you can tell he doesn’t really agree. “Now come on, there’s something I wanna show you.”

Cronus has your dad’s car, and he tells it to take you to a set of coordinates that you know are right on the edge; the location startles a smile out of you that lasts for approximately two seconds. Laughing, you say, “I hope you’ve been practicing your shot, because I’ve only gotten better.”

The car takes you to a shooting range set up near the edge of the plateau, where the view is of open ocean and the fence keeping people from jumping off is almost nonexistent; it’s short enough that you can shoot a gun right over it to hovering targets set up off the side. Once you arrive, Cronus takes out a rifle you’ve never seen before as well as your old one, tossing the latter to you after you’ve climbed out of the car.

You take turns, each firing three shots at the farthest target before allowing the other to have a chance. A screen attached to the fence keeps track of each of your stats, and while you’ve both hit the target every time, your accuracy is better, as you hit more critical points. As Cronus takes his turn, you text Vris, sending one message per round.

hey did you evver get out a that building

yknoww the one that got blowwn up a couple a months ago

that wwe wwere in

fef said you wwerent in the group that left so either you ditched beforehand or you wwere still in there

vvris come on i dont need the silent treatment i just need to talk

wwhat did you get your fuckin fingers cut off so you cant text me back wwell ill havve you know thats not a good excuse cause i lost two a mine

youre such an arrogant toerag i hope you got fuckin gutted in the wwreckage an thats wwhy youre not textin me

but seriously vvris RESPOND wwe havve shit wwe need to discuss

You know she got out of there since Fef saw her at the hospital (sans an arm), so she’s just being a bitch. While she’s ignoring you, you and your brother hardly speak as you shoot, since he needs to focus to shoot straight and he’d be mad if you shit talked just to fuck him up. When you were young and precocious, you used to call him slurs and insult him doggedly as he shot, but now you give him a chance.

After eight rounds, Cronus’s accuracy percentage is 89%, and yours is 98%. You smirk at the palindrome, elbowing Cronus in the ribs. He shoves you, and as you stumble to the side you’re ashamed that you almost fall; it’s only an _almost_ because Cronus catches you, immediately apologizing, “Shit, sorry, I forgot—”

“Asshole,” you say without any venom in it. You’re always surprised when you feel fondness towards your brother, but despite knowing he’s a disgusting creep, he’s well… your _brother_. That’s all you can explain it as.

You’re in a good mood when you get back into the car, and you’re an idiot because you didn’t immediately realize Cronus wanted you to be in a good mood on purpose; it makes you more susceptible to his prodding. As he sets the car to “home”—just to drop you off, he’s going down to play music in the Furthest Ring—he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Chief, are you _sure_ you want this?”

“What’s ‘this’?” you ask, playing dumb.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Snorting, you question, “Why does no one think I know what I’m doing? I know _exactly_ what I’m getting into, Cro.”

“Eridan, you were practically brainwashed when you were a kid to want to join the Angels,” he says, trying to look you in the eye. You refuse to meet his gaze. “I know what that’s like; we have the same fuckface father. Now that you’ve been away for a while, I assumed you’d have some second thoughts.”

You try to blankface him into submission, but he doesn’t fall for it. Releasing a sigh, you say, “I _did_ think about not reinstating. However, I feel like I’ll do more good than harm if I stay. You know that the Angels have a bad reputation down… there. Maybe I can make it look like we’re not all raging cockmongers.”

“Eri,” he says with a sharp laugh, “you _are_ a raging cockmonger. Don’t kid yourself.”

“Oh shut it,” you snap, shoving his shoulder.

His expression becomes serious again. “You staying in the Angels won’t help their reputation, trust me. Dad already fucked with their public image groundside— _on purpose_ , because he’s a brilliant, fear-mongering bastard—and I’m proof that you don’t have to follow in his footsteps.”

“Do you seriously think I’d be satisfied with a desk job on some days and playing in bars on others? I’d fuckin’ hate that.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you add almost petulantly, “And it’s not fear-mongering if it’s true. What the hell do you have to say about the people that were going missing before the whole thing at the Justice Building went down, huh?”

“In Dad’s words, that was ‘insurance’,” Cronus replies. “If you take people away, that takes the power out of the revolutionary machine, right? And here you are questioning it,” he says in such a tone that you’re certain he’s getting pissed, “while also being a fuckin’ part of it.”

Your mouth opens and closes as you try to form a defense, but all you end up doing is shrugging nonchalantly and saying, “You don’t need to tell me I’m a hypocrite. I know. But you are too, because you don’t give a _shit_ about anyone down there, and yet here you are, being all preachy towards me when you’d fuck over every single one of them if you could.”

“Of course I don’t care about them,” he says offhandedly, “but I care about _you_ , and I think you’re making a big mistake, chief. This shit isn’t good for your psyche.”

“Get your life together before you judge mine,” you say coldly, and you don’t speak for the rest of the car ride. You’re not really mad at him, but there’s something satisfying about not replying to his sulky phrases like, _‘come on Eri why do you gotta be so rude’_ and _‘you’re staying quiet cause you know I’m right’_ and _‘I’m just trying to look out for you, no need to be such a brat’._ You’re not entirely cruel, though, because you leave behind a clipped, “Bye,” as you get out of the car.

Nailed it.

You don’t expect anything weird when you get back to your dad’s place. You think Cronus is out playing guitar in a bar near the bottom of the elevator station, and Dad should be home from work. When you step onto the landing outside of the penthouse door, though, there’s a piece of paper stuck in the crack between the door and the wall. You pluck it from its position, unfolding it and examining its contents. Though it’s blank, that’s not enough to fool you, and with dread snaking its way through your intestines, you immediately turn and get back into the elevator.

How did Scratch get a message up to the Burbs? Sure, he’s a buck; you’ve known that all along. But he’d renounced everything that had to do with the upper level when he’d joined the Felt, and even if you could see him getting up the elevators, how did he get up to the penthouse of the _head of fuckin’ security_?

You’re so tired and achy; you really don’t need this right now, but you absolutely have to know what message he’s given you this time. Hell, it could be some sort of threat against you and Fef, and that would have to be dealt with immediately.

The tattoo parlor is a few blocks away from the penthouse, so you hail a cab and take it over. It’s twenty minutes until closing when you arrive, and the bright, sterile atmosphere reminds you of a hospital. This place isn’t like the piercing and tattoo place in the Furthest Ring, where they used regular ink and simply painted pictures on your skin. This was a classy establishment, where they could make moving tattoos in subtle places, and had many different kinds of ink to choose from, including stuff that only showed up under certain conditions like black light.

“I need to use your black light,” you demand, striding in with your chin held high. People in the Burbs aren’t easily intimidated, and the least busy artist in the place comes over to you, a glint of something untrusting in his eyes.

“Only if you’re a customer with plans to get a UV tattoo,” he says, the patience in his voice straining already.

“I’m a fuckin’ off-duty Angel,” you say, pulling out your trainee badge to flash him, and he—like most Burbites—trusts you after seeing it. “Now I’ll tell you again: I need your black light. It’ll take two seconds.”

The man leads you to the back room, and you analyze the exits and slip your hand into your pocket to keep wrapped around your small pistol. With your other hand, you pull out the scrap of paper, making a shooing motion with your chin so the worker knows to move out of reading range. He does more than that, leaving the room completely.

(After being in an environment that distrusts Angels so fiercely, it’s weird being back home, where you’re once again respected. You can’t say you miss the backwards attitude from down below.)

Flicking on the lamp reveals not a set of terms or paragraph of explanation, but two words; they’re simple, and you understand their meaning, but you have no idea what the context is.

TICK TOCK.

_I’m running out of time,_ you think. _But what the fuck am I supposed to_ do _?_ Stuffing the paper into your pocket, you turn off the light and leave without thanking the tattoo artist; you’re not in a good enough mood to show any gratitude.

You don’t understand what the hell Scratch wants with you. The pervert never truly deals with men; he uses them as puppets to get to women. The main question that’s been worrying you since you got the first note is what this lunatic wants with Fef; she’s not even _with_ you here. You can see why he might want to try and sort out some kind of deal with her—even after being disowned, she’s still powerful in her own right—but why does he need you to be the go-between guy?

(You _hate_ being the go-between guy. You’re Eridan fucking Ampora, you should get your own path too.)

Your legs are sore and you’re more exhausted than you’ve been in days and you still don’t have any fucking answers about _anything_. So of course, Vriska would choose this moment to text you back.

Meet me at the Hydra, 8 o’clock. Make sure to dress nice! :::;)

ugh vvris what kind a fuckin game are you playin here

Of course, you don’t get a response, but you sure as hell don’t go back to the penthouse, shower, change into one of your new, pure white suits, and head to the Hydra. That would be falling right into her fucking web.

…What the hell are you talking about, of course you do all of that shit.

The restaurant she told you to meet her at is in the heart of the city, rising above all of the other restaurants in the area. The building is made for offices, but the restaurant takes up the top two floors, and luckily there’s an elevator. By the time you make it to the base of the skyscraper, a drizzle has begun, and the oncoming rain has brought such an ache to your bones that before you head to the restaurant, you duck into a bathroom on the first floor and give yourself a rest, sitting on the plush lounge chair and, after checking to make sure no one else is in there with you, pulling the side table in front of you. You’re ashamed to admit some not-so-manly noises burst from your throat as you painstakingly lift each of your legs up so they’re stretched out in front of you, heels resting on the table. The supports take the majority of your weight, true, but you’re still supposed to be on crutches and you’ve done way too much stuff today.

You’d managed to keep most of the pain at bay so far, but now that you’re sitting and expecting it, you grit your teeth, throw your head back, and dig the heels of your hands into your eye sockets as you try to wait out the pain. Too much pressure and usage is bad, you were told, but it’s not like you could just hobble around on crutches here; that shit isn’t accepted, and even though with each passing day you realize how _ridiculous_ that is, you can’t force yourself to be taboo. You’ll just have to suffer, and anyway, you’ll come out the other side stronger.

After a five minute pain break, you dig your medicine case out of your pocket, load up a syringe with modified hydromorphone, and stick it in your arm; however, you hesitate before pushing down the plunger. You know this stuff fucks with your head. It’s not like Serenity, because this shit makes it _harder_ to think, not easier. Every time you take a dose, it’s like someone wrapped a wool blanket around your brain that dissolves over time, and if you’re dealing with Vriska, you have to keep your mind sharp.

Experimentally, you take the needle out of your arm and try to stand. Your knees buckle under your weight and you plop right back down in the seat, bile rising in your throat. Glancing at the digital clock on the mirror to your right, it’s just past eight, and you know Vriska won’t be at your table until 8:08 so you have another minute or two. Gulping, you reinsert the needle and refuse to hesitate this time before pushing down the plunger.

The liquid feels like acid for the first few seconds, but then that fades and you start to feel calmer. You know it’ll take a few minutes to really take effect, so you lay your head back and close your eyes, allowing yourself a brief respite. When the clock ticks to 8:10 ( _tick tock_ echoes in your head), you get up and head for the door, just enough feeling in your legs to be able to put one foot in front of the other.

When you reach the restaurant, you say you have a reservation under the name Serket, and the host leads you to her table. It’s out on the balcony and the rain has picked up, but like most restaurants in the Burbs, there’s a forcefield awning that’s leading the rain away from you like there’s a roof over your head without obscuring the view of the sky. There’s not much to see tonight in the way of stars, but watching the rain run down like it’s hitting glass is a magnificent enough sight for you.

Vriska picked a spot in the corner, and she doesn’t look at you until the host is gone, but you take that time to appraise her. Fef had told you about her missing arm, and you realized months ago she had a Pulsar-brand weapon herself, and that was the kind of gun affected by the electromagnetic pulse. It must’ve blown up and taken some of her with it, just like your pistol took two of your fingers. The dress she’s in now makes her look like a tease, as it’s way above her knees and shows enough cleavage to draw your gaze, but one thing that’s always drawn you to Vriska is her choice of color; she knows just what shade of blue to pick to make her eyes look like they’re burning with cerulean fire. Her vision eightfold lens in one eye is just enough to make her gaze unnerving, but when she finally looks over at you, you don’t react.

“Now _there’s_ the Eridan Ampora I know,” she greets, a mocking snarl on her lips that says you passed some sort of Serket Assessment of Buckitude, and a part of you preens. Though a haze sits over your mind, your head is clear enough to think that you shouldn’t _want_ to pass, that you’ve _changed_ , but as you gracefully slide into the seat you can’t help but feel like this is where you belong. You like the fashion and the high stakes and the mind games and some days you even like Vriska, because as much as you hate her guts, she’s sly and ruthless and gorgeous and she plays her game well.

It’s strange, hating and loving someone at the same time. It’s not like loving Fef, where some of the things she does annoy you but you’ll always come back to her side in the end. It’s not like loving Cronus, who you find lazy and idiotic and you’d _like_ to hate him, but you still remember how he used to take your hand when you were younger and lead you through high society parties and put himself between you and Dad when he had to unwind after the stress of leading the Angels. No, loving Vriska is almost an oxymoron, because there’s no fondness there, only spite and vexation and something magnetic that wants to keep you close.

You smirk, leaving your damaged hand on your lap and propping your chin in your other palm. Raising your eyebrows, you say, “It seems the Vriska Serket _I_ know is missing some bits.”

She scoffs as she leans her chair back on two legs, and even though this is one of the fanciest places in the Burbs, she has the audacity to prop her feet on the table, crossing her legs at the ankle and displaying her deep silver heels. “I’m _better_ this way.” She lifts her mechanical arm, clenching her fist and rubbing her thumb over her pointer finger to create some small sparks. It seems like her fine motor control with her prosthetic is better than yours, which is irksome. “This arm is stronger, sturdier, and as the years go by, I can upgrade it. You are going to be stuck in that broken fucking body of yours until you die.”

It feels as if you’ve swallowed an icicle as your nostrils flare in indignation. You’re still not mad, though—not as mad as you’d be without meds, anyway. “I’m at 90% of what I used to be,” you say icily, and you’re lying but that hardly matters, “and I’ll be up to 150% in no time. I know what I need to do to get better, and I’m going to fucking do it. Now, there’s some shit I wanna discu—”

“Nope!” she says almost cheerily, shutting you the fuck up. “I get to go first. _You_ ,” she manages to put so much accusation into that one syllable, even though the rest of her words are mockingly saccharine, “owe me.”

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest to pretend a spike of panic didn’t just shoot through your stomach. “I don’t owe you for shit, Serket.”

“You _do_ , though,” she says condescendingly, examining her nails like she’s trying to be nonchalant. You know her better than that—she’s about to say something risky. “I haven’t gotten in touch with Medigo and Nitram since our last interaction went sour, which I’m suuuuuuuuure you’ve heard about already, so I won’t go into detail. I could still contact them, though, and tell them all about you. About who you really are—”

“I’m sure Fef has already explained—”

“But she won’t admit what a raving _lunatic_ you are to them! She’ll try to save face by painting you as _misguided_ , but you and I both know that you haven’t _really_ changed. Once they realize that you’re just like every other eugenic-loving fuckbag on this plateau, none of them will _ever_ want anything to do with you.”

You think of Kar and Kan and Ruf and everyone else you met and tolerated, and you know that they’d think you had betrayed them, despite the fact you hadn’t spit on any of them _once_ since you’d known them. It’s strange to think that maybe you love Karkat and Kanaya, but you do. Or at least, you’ve grown fond enough of them that you want to keep Vriska away from them by whatever means necessary. They wouldn’t want anything to do with you if Vris could get them to believe her.

At this point, you can’t even remember what you wanted to talk to her about in the first place. Maybe you just wanted to make sure she was alive, but now, you almost wish she’d died when the building got blown to shit. “ _Are you blackmailing me?_ ” you question, indignation making your voice rise in pitch.

Her eyes snap up to meet yours as she mocks in a high, nasally tone, “Are you suddenly twelv-ve again? Yeah, douchebag, I guess I am.”

“My stutter is _gone_ , you virulent, wacky bitch,” you say, and you’re proud that your voice is steady. This would be an awkward moment for the waiter to approach to take your drink order, but you guess Vriska told them to stay away until this bit of business was over. Lips curling, you continue, “Are you ever gonna stop dwelling on the past? And I don’t mean just mine—yours, too, and Ray’s.”

“Who the hell is _Ray_?”

“Aradia, whatever.”

“Aww, you knew her well enough to give her a nickname,” she ridicules. “How cute.”

Scowling, you don’t tell her to shut her trap. It’d just close with you inside of it. “Just leave them the hell alone.” You don’t stop to think about what you’re saying as you snap, “They belong down there; we belong up here. Let it go.”

She takes a breadstick and tears a chunk out of it, her pristine, white teeth gleaming; you notice that she’s had her canines sharpened since you were kids. “ _I_ belong up here, you mean. You could neeeeeeeever re-enter the Angels now.”

You snap, “I can and I will,” and now there’s no way you can go back down to the Burbs with Fef in the near future. You need to prove a point to Vris, and you’ve never been afraid of doing things out of spite.

(What would’ve been helpful for you to remember, though, is that neither is she.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckin' _Vriska_.


	15. XIV- 43 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you may have noticed, I changed the summary! I don't think I'm ever going to be satisfied with it--if there are two things I completely suck at in the writing world, it's summaries and titles! 
> 
> I have some good news for you: I'm doing NaNoWriMo this month! "Wait, Katy," you might say, "isn't that in November? And isn't Camp NaNo done in April and July?" Well, concerned reader, you would be correct! However, I decided to do it on my own in May, since it's my least busy month and I wanted to make some good headway on this. May is also a good month to do it in for the sake of the update schedule, since I'm hoping the momentum will carry me through the fall semester of college. We'll be doing monthly updates from here on out, or maybe even bump it to ~3 weeks instead; I want Act 2 wrapped up, the second Intermission done, and Act 3 started by the end of the year, and after this there are eight chapters to go in this act. Once Act 3 starts, we are in the home stretch--it's the shortest of the Acts. If you hadn't noticed by now, this is going to be one long-ass fic.

Gamzee Makara had painted another billboard.

It was definitely him—his signature that Eridan had showed you, months ago, is still grinning and purple in the lower right corner—but this one is different than the others, and it makes your stomach lurch. You’d noticed that Gamzee’s paintings had been getting darker in subject matter, changing from bible verses and lines from songs in the Heresy drives painted with vivid, colorful brushstrokes into monochromatic landscapes of subjugation. In the month you’ve been back, you’ve seen two of his murals, and both were more haunting than any you’d seen him do before. The first was on the side of a factory wall in the Belt, depicting people lined up begging for mercy from a God they had lost faith in. Another, two weeks later and a block from the elevators to the Burbs, a human silhouette with large antlers like a male deer was hung from old fashioned gallows.

Today, it’s on the same billboard where you’d first seen his work, right outside of your apartment, and the message is a simple phrase on a white background: LORD ENGLISH IS WATCHING YOU. It looks incredibly fresh; if you’d shown up ten minutes before, Gamzee still probably would’ve been here, painting away.

You’ve always known that Lord English—the surveillance program that’s everywhere in the Furthest Ring and in most places in the Burbs—was a constant presence, impossible to be ignored. The message Gamzee put there isn’t truly unnerving on its own.

What’s scary about it is it looks like it was smeared onto the makeshift canvas in blood.

Derse can wait half an hour. Praying that the scarlet smears on the billboard are just freaky slashes of paint—you know he’s painted in red before—you head back into your apartment and keep yourself busy for fifteen minutes by doing the dishes that had built up over the past few days. Once that’s over with, you go sit on the crappy couch in the tiny living room and turn on the TV, trying to focus on the news playing. About ten minutes in, you give up, losing to impatience as you step back outside, this time fully planning to continue to Derse. Anyway, twenty-five minutes is probably a long enough time for the mural to sit in order to judge what it was created with.

Your heart drops when you come back out and people are painting over the words with a police officer supervising from his car. Part of the words haven’t been touched yet, though; they must’ve just started painting it over. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you look at the remaining text and have your fears confirmed.

The lettering has turned a dull, light brown from drying in the sun. Regular red paint doesn’t do that.

This Sunday, the meeting is in the morning at around eleven rather than in the evening—there are special plans for tonight. You’d skipped breakfast with the Vantas-Maryam clan, as they were very busy with planning, and had a quiet cup of tea alone, watching a nature documentary made for kids about the ocean that was on the public broadcasting channel. You have lunch plans with Aradia after the meeting, and you really hope she doesn’t decide to drag Sollux along; though you’d always gotten along _before_ you declared your status as a buck, you think he felt betrayed. You really can’t blame him, since it was probably _your_ grandmother who had _his_ grandmother taken away. Perhaps his father, too.

Hopefully after what you have to give him today, he’ll warm up to you again.

When you all arrive, there are seats open next to Aradia and her sourpuss boyfriend, so you slide into a chair next to her. The other places that usually contain Karkat and Kanaya are empty; since Porrim and Kankri are also noticeably absent, you figure they just haven’t arrived yet.

Aradia greets you warmly, standing up to hug you and ignoring Sollux’s small scoff at the effort. You just ignore him for now, like he seems perfectly content to disregard you, as Aradia starts going on about a rude patron she had in her shop yesterday. After a couple of minutes of chatting, she goes to use the restroom before the meeting begins in earnest, leaving you and Sollux alone.

It doesn’t appear like he wants to talk to you, but you take a deep breath and suck up the fact that even after this, he _still_ probably won’t like you. “I have something for you.”

Sollux barely glances at you before turning back to his tablet. One corner of his lips twitches as he says, “I don’t want it.”

Huffing, you think about your next course of action. You like Sollux! You really do. You think he’s brilliant and capable and he and Aradia are good for each other. Aradia had told him what she’d known about you after you’d disappeared—he was the only one, she assured you. Despite his misgivings, he hadn’t told Karkat or Kankri, or even his brother. That makes you think that there’s still a way to win him over and make him stop being mad at you.

You’re pretty sure you figured out that way, too. It’s in the palm of your hand right now.

“I’m pretty sure you _would_ want it if you knew what it was.”

Sighing harshly, he hunches further in his chair and snaps, “And you think you know what everyone else wants, right? You don’t know what I fucking want. Back off.”

That stings. Swallowing, you glance at the ground; you don’t want to show him that his remark hurt you, but then you could be accused of blankfacing, and you don’t need that. It could be considered a good thing that you let your emotions show, though, because Sollux glances at you again before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorr—” He cuts his own apology off. “Just… just give it to me, if you want me to have it that badly.”

He holds his hand out, and you place the information chip into his hand. “This has all of the Heresies on it.”

His brow scrunches up as he pockets it to look at later. “And what the fuck are those?”

You thought Sollux, with his access to the network, would know _exactly_ what they are, but maybe they have a different name for them down here. “They’re banned books. They were taken off the network a long time ago, but they still exist. I copied the files and got them for you, because I figured you’d appreciate them more than anyone else here.”

He doesn’t thank you, but he does make a little noise in his throat that makes you think you picked the right reconciliation gift for him. After about thirty seconds of awkward silence, he suddenly says, “I don’t want a handout.”

“It’s _not_ a handout,” you say earnestly, but he continues as if he didn’t hear you.

“You miss that douchebag of yours, right? I saw that someone restricted your elevator use on your ID file. I can make it so the restriction still shows up, but it’ll only be a visual thing. If you can get on without an attendant stopping you, I’ll remove the actual block in your ID so it’ll bring you up when you scan it.”

Sollux doesn’t really like verbal thanks; he likes to show gratitude through actions instead. He doesn’t really need to thank you for this, since you did it so he’d stop being mad at you, but if it makes him feel better about taking the information, you’ll accept his return gift graciously. “That would be fantastic! Thank you.”

“I’ll do it right after the meeting ends.”

You’d been wondering how your plan to bring down food was going to work, since your mother made it so you need special permission to allow the elevator to take you to the top of the metal plateau. If Sollux can really fix your ID, that would make it so you could finally start bringing down whatever food you could carry.

And, as Sol had said in more vitriolic words, you could see Eridan again.

You’re tempted to say you’d want to see him just to spite your mother, because you’re still kind of mad at him for not coming back with you and being a dick about it, but honestly, it’s not the same without him. Though you’re in the same apartment you used to be in, it feels _lonely_ without him curling up next to you in bed or standing in the kitchen making pancakes in his boxers or singing loudly in the shower. Sure, it’s kind of nice to not have an extra body in the bed to make things hotter during the sweltering summer, but summer is almost over and you miss being able to listen to his breathing as you fell asleep. Despite Eridan being the insomniac of your duo, you don’t always sleep soundly, and having him there was a nice comfort.

But now he’s not here, and you miss him, even if he is insufferable.

Karkat and Kanaya arrive before Aradia gets back. As they’re sitting down, someone taps you on the shoulder, and you turn around, expecting Ray but finding Rufioh.

Today he’s in black jeans and a maroon muscle shirt that really shows off his biceps. And deltoids. And pretty much every other muscle in the shoulder-arm zone because _damn_. You see a peek of white on the inside of his arms, almost like scars, and you frown slightly before your gaze travels to his face. His expression is closed-off but not unkind, and you can see how anxious he is despite his attempts to hide it by cracking a small smile and slipping his hands into his pockets. “You heard from Eridan lately?” he asks.

“Yeah, but he didn’t say anything you’d be interested in,” you reply, shrugging slightly as if to say, _hey, what can you do?_ He huffs a breath of air out through his nose, causing the ring in his septum to shift slightly. Adding a bit more bubbliness to your tone, you add, “He should be coming back down here soon, though!”

You don’t really know how much of a lie that is. Eridan had been saying for weeks that he was going to _visit_ any day now, but said nothing about a long-term move. If he ever considered moving back down here permanently, it would probably be because he failed his Angel examination or did something equally shameful. The thought makes your heart hurt—it’d honestly be _good_ for him if he wasn’t allowed to go into the Angels, but that would have the potential to crush him even more than having a damn building collapse on top of him. You don’t know if you’d be able to pick up the pieces this time.

“Oh, okay,” Rufioh says, and then he turns away. You get a better look at the white lines you’d seen on his arms. From the back it’s entirely evident what they’re from: tattoos. He’d been inked up somewhat before, colorful patterns twining around his hands and up his calves, but these are different—the white curves that look almost like scarring jut out from his shoulder blades, bursting from under his muscle shirt and flowing down the backs of his arms, creating two perfectly symmetrical angel wings. They aren’t the set from the Angel Initiative, but the kind that appear feathery and bird-like, resembling the kind depicted in religious texts.

You watch him stride back to the table with his personal entourage. You see the eldest Zahhak touch his arm lightly as Rufioh sits down, his mouth moving in an inquiry. Rufioh shakes his head slightly and Horuss retracts his hand, lying it almost demurely on his lap. You can tell Equius notices you watching, because he’s so obviously _not_ trying to look in your direction, but Damara stares you down until you smile at her slightly and turn back to your table.

Rufioh’s brother isn’t at your table like he usually is, because he’s been rather preoccupied with the ordeal of having working legs again. While you were gone, the Nitrams hit an amount of money they’d been saving towards for a very long time, and Tavros had spinal reconstruction surgery. Though gene therapy was used mostly for prenatal enhancements in the Burbs, the Furthest Ring focused more on the medical field and improvements to existing treatments that could change lives. Usually, Tavros would’ve had the surgery right after his accident and would’ve walked away right as rain, but since the injury wasn’t life-threatening once he was stabilized, Rufioh would’ve needed to come up with a rather large sum of money fast. When he failed to do so, Tavros was left paralyzed from the waist down.

But about two months ago, he’d gotten the surgery he’d needed when he was thirteen, and apparently he was spending a lot of his time working on learning how to walk again and regaining muscle mass. Though you didn’t know the kid that well, you feel proud of him, mostly because of the way Aradia was acting when she told you. She’d nearly started crying, a grin stuck permanently to her face, and you know that one of the many demons Vriska Serket had brought into your friend’s life had been finally put to rest.

Only moments after Aradia returns to the seat next to you, Kankri is calling for silence so the meeting can begin. Once he has control of the room, he says, “As I assume the vast majority of you are aware, we will be having a sit-in protest at the base of the elevators to the Burbs at 9 o’clock PM tonight. We would like to reuse the model from the last time we attempted a protest like this about a month ago, and I hope that once again there will be no violent behavior from either side. Seeing as I am one hundred percent certain there will be police present, here is my main reminder: _do not give them an excuse_. Do not look at them funny, do not yell at them, do not give them the finger, and this one should be rather obvious, but do not try to fight them. If you do anything similar to those things, they will get violent. Hell, it almost came to blows last time because one of the protesters _wouldn’t_ look one of the police captains in the eye; I’m not saying to be docile if someone tries to hurt you, but please, try to keep this as peaceful and orderly as we can.”

Rufioh probably doesn’t like this kind of protesting—and you’re sure that plenty of other people don’t either—but you think Kankri probably knows what he’s doing at this point. He talks some more about what to expect when you arrive, how long you’ll be there, what to bring, and how to turn clothing into a makeshift tear gas mask (just in case). “I hope some of this information won’t have to be used,” Kankri concludes, stepping down from the chair he was standing on, “but I want you to be prepared for anything. Now, Porrim will discuss the demonstration gala.”

Kankri lends her his shoulder as she climbs onto the chair he had been perching on. Porrim looks lovely tonight, with a black pleated skirt and blazer over a jade green collared shirt that has the top three buttons undone, revealing parts of the swooping tattoos that curl around her breasts and weave across her shoulders. She clears her throat once and straightens her blazer before starting. “After much negotiation, we’ve been able to book a restaurant that’s one building over from the elevators and is owned by one of us. Seeing as it’s right next to the elevators, a lot of bucks that come down from the Burbs for one reason or another eat there, and are at least somewhat familiar with it. I hadn’t been there myself before this past Friday when I went to see if a place like Prospit would be proper for our kind of event, and I liked what I saw—the ceilings are very high, the lighting is nice and relatively bright, and the interior is pretty damn spacious. We’re probably going to clear a lot of the tables and chairs so people can mingle easier and we’ll just have an open bar rather than actually serving food; I’ve been working with Wayland to figure out a reduced price, and we’ll start collecting donations once we have a solid figure to tell you all. Any questions?”

A couple pop into your mind, but you figure you can just ask her yourself later. You were surprised when you first came back to the Furthest Ring and there was a demonstration in the works. It’s not the protest-y kind of demonstration, but the kind you grew up going to in the Burbs that people had to show off new technologies and research findings. This gala is modeled off common buck ceremonies—you’re almost certain that Aranea has a rather large hand in its planning, and ever since you got back, Porrim would also come to you with questions about how parties like this are run in the Burbs. Their plan is to attract people on the higher end of the GMS with something familiar so you could get into their heads and try to show them you mean business.

Though you were never really fond of demonstrations—they were always more of Eridan’s thing—you’d attended a lot of them as a child, and you like to offer whatever help you can. After all the careful thought and planning that’s going into this, you hope some people decide to show up; this can’t be another bust like the fliers that were rained on.

“Is there a set date for it yet?” someone asks.

“It’ll probably be in mid-October,” Porrim replies, folding her arms behind her back. The topmost button on her blouse is straining to keep everything together, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “We’ll have an exact date by the next meeting.”

A few more people ask questions and voice concerns, and soon the shorter-than-usual meeting is drawing to a close, with Kankri expressing his excitement for the upcoming protest. Once it’s over, you get up, exchanging a look with Aradia as if to say _, Ready?_

She nods.

After pecking Sollux on the cheek, she turns away from him and stands as you do, looping her natural arm with yours. It’s time for lunch.

You go to the restaurant on the third floor of Derse—Buster’s—that you both like well enough. You’re seated immediately and have time to put in your drink orders before you see Aradia take a deep breath, rubbing at her metal elbow like it’s itching, but you don’t think prosthetics _can_ itch; you’ll have to ask Eridan later. Glancing up from the table so she can look you in the eye, she reveals, “Vriska messaged me on Pesterchum yesterday.”

Breath exits your lungs in a _whoosh_. “Vriska _Serket_?” you try to clarify.

“Do we know any other ‘Vriska’s?” she retorts, forcedly blasé. “The Marquise’s daughter, the Spider8itch, arachnidsGrip. _That_ Vriska.”

“Well, what did she have to say for herself?” you ask. You don’t think you’d _ever_ want to hear from Vriska again after what she did to Aradia and her friends.

Aradia sighs, running her hand through her hair. “She heard that Tavros was walking again and wanted to talk to me about it. Here, I screenshotted the conversation to send to Sollux,” she says, taking out her out-of-date tablet and unlocking it before sliding it across the table to you. This particular scrap of the chat reads:

AA: this is y0ur last warning vriska

AA: leave me the hell al0ne

AG: Hey, don’t get all snippy! Aren’t you the one always harping a8out having an open mind????????

AA: i d0nt think my 0pen-mindedness extends t0 pe0ple wh0 tried t0 kill me and my friends

AA: 0_0

AG: Oh, you’re still dwelling on that? Too 8ad, Megido, the rest of the world has moved on.

AA: i really d0nt want t0 talk t0 y0u

AG: 8ut you haven’t 8locked me yet, have you?

AG: ::::)

AA: just say what y0u need t0 then fuck 0ff

AG: Well FINE!

AG: I just heard that our f8vorite cripple was learning to walk again.

AG: And to clarify, I do NOT mean Eridan Ampora. He’s no one’s f8vorite anything.

AA: i d0nt kn0w h0w thats relevant but 0kay

AA: leave tavr0s al0ne

AG: Why the fuck do you think I’m messaging YOU and not HIM, hmmmmmmmm?

AG: I AM leaving Tavros alone! I mean, I won’t 8e forever, 8ut I thought you’d want me to talk to YOU first. Seeeeeeee, I know a8out common courtesy!

AA: y0ure 0nly glad about tavr0s getting his spine fixed because y0u think y0u d0nt need t0 feel guilty ab0ut what happened anym0re

AA: but newsflash

AA: y0u d0

AA: because im still made 0f 30% metal

AG: If my plan had worked, you wouldn’t have 8een made of ANY metal! You’d 8e dead!!!!!!!!

AG: See? You and Tavros 8oth got second chances, and I think I deserve one too! Plus, we’re even now—I’m down an arm.

AA: y0u seri0usly think we c0uld still be friends

AA: after all 0f this

AG: Of course not! I wouldn’t want to 8e friends with either of you anyway. You really aaaaaaaare an idiot! If Tavros wants to talk to me later, you wouldn’t 8e a8le to stop him; you’re not his fucking g8keeper.

AA: s0 whats g0ing 0n then

AA: im ab0ut tw0 sec0nds away fr0m bl0cking y0u s0 start explaining

AG: You can go ahead and 8lock me, 8ecause I got all I need to know from you already! Fuck off, and tell Tavros to get his ass moving!!!!!!!!

“What a bitch,” you say as you lock the tablet and slide it back across the table to her.

“I know!” she exclaims, putting the tablet back in her bag. It’s a canvas messenger bag that looks like it was sewn out of material she found at the dump—perhaps some sailcloth. She’s had it ever since you’ve known her. “She better stay the hell away from Tavros. He’s stressed enough right now as it is; he doesn’t need Vriska shoving her way back into his life.”

You flinch as she says “shoving”, seeing as that’s how Tavros was paralyzed in the first place. Keeping Eridan’s partial transformation in mind, you venture, “Maybe she’s changed a little bit, become less rash and terrible. I knew her back when I lived in the Burbs, and she was always so _juvenile_. I hope she’s grown up some.”

Aradia is shaking her head even before you stop speaking. “Vriska isn’t like Eridan, Feferi. She doesn’t _want_ to change.”

“Eridan never wanted to either,” you say, surprised that she caught on to what you were insinuating. “He was born terrible, raised terrible, and he would’ve been perfectly content dying terrible before he came down here to have some sense knocked into him. He and Vriska were friends,” you admit, “and I’m pretty sure they’ve tracked each other down since he went back up there. I can try to have him talk to her for you.”

“There’s no need for that,” Aradia says, something in her tone telling you that she is _not_ happy with Eridan. You wouldn’t be either, in her position. “How the hell can he be _friends_ with someone like her?”

You’ve never really been able to answer that question; you used to think it was because horrible people attracted each other to commit atrocities, but now, you just think Eridan had wanted attention from someone who wasn’t you or his family. He was a lonely kid, and even if Vriska was vile, she pushed him to be stronger. Wasn’t that worth at least a little bit of begrudging respect?

No, it wasn’t. Vriska Serket was a sadistic, self-serving cunt, and you don’t think a lot has changed since you were children, even if you brought the idea up to Aradia yourself.

“Eridan has never been very good at making friends,” you say slowly, carefully considering each word before you say it. “I guess he felt like he didn’t need to be picky when she showed interest in him, and he hasn’t really been able to shake her.”

“Well, he hit the friendship lottery with you,” Aradia allows, and she surprises a grin out of you with her kind words, “so I guess not _all_ of his friends in the Burbs were going to be perfect.” She huffs, leaning back in her chair. “But _Vriska_.”

She doesn’t have to say anything else; saying that girl’s name in such a discontented tone conveys enough. “ _Vriska_ ,” you agree.

You both eat the food that’s brought to you, and then you say goodbye until the protest tonight. You take the bus back across town and go back to your apartment; it’s very quiet in the one above you when you go inside, so you guess none of the Maryams and Vantases are there. With about five hours to go before the protest, you decide to take out your tablet and message Eridan on Pesterchum to try and get him to come.

\--cuttlefishCuller [CC] began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA]--

CC: )(ey! T)(ere’s a protest tomorrow at t)(e base of the elevators, you s)(ould come down!

It takes him about fifteen minutes to respond, and his reply is curt.

CA: maybe

CC: Don’t you ‘maybe’ me!!! Come on, everyone misses you and you can’t just ABANDON us down )(ere!

CA: look fef ivve been really busy lately ill try my best but i cant make any promises

CA: and i highly doubt that evveryone misses me like you say they do

CA: hell YOU probably dont evven miss me

He’s baiting you for sure, but you can’t help but reassure him.

CC: Of course I miss you, doofus! That’s w)(y I want you to come. Plus, you TOLD me t)(at you’d come to t)(e first one t)(ey )(eld after I came back down.

CA: i said that cause i thought itd be a wwhile

CC: It )(AS been a w)(ile! I came back down a mont)( ago!

CA: i just

CA: dont think im ready to be seen yet and it takes a lotta effort to be presentable yknoww

Some people would think he’s saying that it takes too much effort to dress up and do his hair, but you know him better than that. While it’s true that _is_ something Eridan has used as an excuse in the past, he’s only been out of the hospital for a month. He’s been really tight-lipped about how he’s been doing—and _what_ he’s been doing—so of course you’re going to assume he’s doing something stupid. He’d said that he was still using his crutches and waiting to restart the physical aspects of his Angel training, but last week you’d weaseled out of him that he was lying to you, and he hadn’t used crutches since August. He’s probably _still_ lying to you through his teeth about not having restarted Angel training, too. He’s almost certainly thrown himself back into the world, trying to hide the fact he’s hurting by not using anything visible and pretending he’s all right.

But even if he _is_ lying like you think he is, it would be more walking than he’s used to in the Burbs.

Before he was even out of the recuperacoon, you were poring over his x-rays and test results and wondering how long it was going to take for him to put himself back together. Even with the nanotreatments and sopor, the most optimistic doctors said it would take months of intensive physical therapy before he was back to normal functionality; the more pessimistic doctors thought it could take years.

You remember an intern—she could’ve been you in another life, because she was your age and on your university track until you decided you didn’t want to be part of that world anymore—who said he’d probably never regain full functionality of his legs.

But what did she know? She was just an intern.

CC: Fine. I’ll let you use t)(at excuse JUST T)(IS ONC—E! Next time, t)(oug)(, I won’t let you off t)(e )(ook, mister!

CA: i knoww better by noww to think youll evver let me off the hook for anything fef but i wwant you to swwear to me that youre gonna be really careful tonight

CC: I promise!

CA: good

CA: keep an eye out for you knoww wwhats

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]--

He says “you knoww wwhats” like he’s not one of them himself. You get the sense that he’s made some terrible decisions in an attempt to regain control of his person, because you’ve known Eridan for most of your life and you know that he is the most overzealous sucker you’ve ever met. He will work like his body isn’t broken and lie about it the whole time, and not for the first time, you wish he was here with you. In the Furthest Ring, you’d be able to look after him—Cronus will try, because even if he’s a complete bastard he loves his brother, and you’re sure that his father had become stricter again after the novelty of having his son back wore off. Eridan probably likes them better, since they would agree with him when he decided the crutches should only last a week instead of a month. You, unlike them, have his best interests at heart; you wish he would _listen_ to you!

You’re about to log off of Pesterchum when you get another message. You half expect it to be Eridan, whining more about the perils of being “seen”, but it’s not. It’s Jade.

\--gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]--

GG: what does that name mean anyway?

CC: W)(at name?

GG: cuttlefishCuller

GG: i know what cuttlefish are!! theyre cute little squid things that live around reefs

GG: but what would culling them do? it doesn’t sound very nice :(

CC: It isn’t really nice, actually! It tec)(nically means t)(at I’m a cuttlefish)( KILL----ER.

GG: :o! nooooo feferi thats terrible!

CC: Let me finis)( explaining before you jump to conclusions like t)(at! You know w)(at t)(e Culling Orders are, rig)(t? T)(ey )(ave t)(em in )(ouston, too.

GG: yeah i know of them but could i get a little refresher?

CC: W—ELL, basically, t)(ey state t)(at t)(e lower you are on t)(e GMS, t)(e more likely you are to be executed for a crime or declared infirm because of somet)(ing you can’t )(elp.

CC: And of course, cuttlefish)( don’t )(AV-E a GMS to ad)(ere to, so someone being a cuttlefish)( CULL---ER doesn’t make muc)( sense, rig)(t?

GG: i guess??

CC: WRONG! 38D

GG: gasp!!!

CC: Ever since I was R-EALLY little, I’ve wanted to redefine w)(at t)(e word “culling” means.

CC: People aren’t T---EC)(NICALLY culled )(ere as muc)( as t)(ey used to be, because t)(ey broug)(t in I&A so the population wouldn’t dwindle so muc)( when people started doing t)(ings t)(at bucks wouldn’t agree wit)(.

GG: i and a?

CC: Interrogation and Assimilation, keep up!

CC: ANYWAY, I never liked it w)(en someone died, so I decided t)(at I wanted to c)(ange t)(e definition of “culling” from killing to PROT------ECTING!!!

CC: I’ve sort of grown out of t)(at notion at t)(is point t)(oug)(, because you can protect a cuttlefis)( all you want. It’s just an animal. It CAN’T protect itself, so you need to make sure t)(at no vicious predators can get to it!

CC: But t)(e Culling Orders deal wit)( R------EAL P---EOPL-------E! People t)(at )(ave voices t)(at are ignored and s)(oe)(orned into dismal places in society. And t)(at’s not FAIR. W)(o’s not to decide t)(at “protecting t)(em” means sending t)(em all to I&A, so t)(ey come back not knowing w)(o t)(ey are and w)(at t)(ey’ve lost?

CC: If anyt)(ing, I s)(ould try to redefine “culling” as LIST-ENING or SUPPORTING! T)(at would )(elp t)(em a lot more t)(an me just coddling t)(em.

GG: i like the way you think!

You talk for a while after that, chatting about mundane things until she starts asking questions about Kankri’s movement and your involvement in it. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked to her since she asked you all of those questions about the ocean, but it is the first time she’s asked about the movement. She assures you that Karkat has already talked to her about it a fair bit, but she wants to know more—about who’s being vocal and how people are taking it. You don’t tell her every detail, because that would be dumb, but you’re pretty sure you can trust her. You’d told Aradia about Jade when she first messaged you, and the other girl had said Jade spoke to her sometimes, too. A lot of your friends knew her.

When she signs out half an hour later, you still have a few hours to kill before heading down to the base of the elevators for the protest. Instead of letting yourself get pulled into disastrous daytime television, you decide to test out your new elevator bypass.

Since you want this to be a quick, in-and-out kind of thing, you don’t go to see Eridan. When you arrive at the transportation depot, there aren’t a lot of people inside, and no one seems to give a shit about you after they see the elevator doors open seamlessly after you scan your ID. The ride to the top is a few minutes long and spent with jazzy music filling the small box, and you hum along to give yourself something to do. Once the elevator slows and the doors open, you brace yourself and step out into the Burbs.

You don’t allow yourself to stand around and gawk; second only to the hospital, this is almost the area of the Burbs you’ve seen the most of in the past two years or so, and the view when you step out of the building is the same, the only variety being the advertisements. You know where the closest supermarket is, so you head down the street a few blocks until you find it.

Seeing as it’s Sunday and almost everyone up here has the day off, there are more people in the store than usual, and that’s both good and bad for you—you’re more inconspicuous when there are a lot of people around, but you’re more likely to run into someone you know. You keep your head down as you grab a shopping basket and sweep the store from one end to the other, grabbing every useful item you can think of: milk, eggs, flour, sugar, cheese, apples, lettuce, tomatoes, noodles. The list goes on. There are no massive lines with people waiting for each item, and though things are rationed up here, you figure there’s no way you’d ever hit the items-per-person cap, since the rationing is worked into how many items are put on the shelves. Unlike the Furthest Ring, where items are distributed based on GMS level and the maximum item capacity wasn’t anywhere _near_ generous, what’s on the shelves are what the people of the Burbs, as a whole, are allowed to get for the week.

Shopping doesn’t take very long; you can only purchase things in small amounts because you have to carry it all back down. After going through self-checkout and scanning your debit card, your items are neatly packed into six large bags by carapaces. These ones are much less advanced than the little drones that work in the hospital, and they’re only around to bag groceries, clean messes, and stock items onto the shelves. You give the one assisting you a friendly pat on the head before threading all of the grocery bags onto your arms and heading back onto the streets.

No one stops you as you walk from the store to the elevators. The only trouble you get once you’re back down is minor—you receive some very strange looks from the people working the desk in the transportation depot back in the Furthest Ring, but since bringing food down from the Burbs isn’t illegal as long as you have clearance to use the elevators, they let it go without stopping you. That’s a relief—if they’d looked up your file and saw you were actually on restricted access, you could get in a lot of trouble.

You take the bus back to your apartment complex, and you’re surprised you don’t get mugged on the way back for your food. The neat bags made from cheap fabric instead of thin plastic practically scream _Burbs_ , so you guess your assumed position near the top of the GMS is making people give you a wide berth, seeing as if someone from the lower end of the GMS tried to steal from someone in the top four castes, they could spend some time in jail at the kindest and be sent to I&A at the cruelest.

When you arrive, you drop one bag at home for yourself and head up to the Maryam-Vantas apartment with their food in tow; Kankri and Porrim are out, getting lunch with Latula and Mituna. Kanaya lets you in, her gaze immediately fixing itself to your bags of food. “Here, let me help you with those.”

She takes two of them and shuts the door behind you. When you walk into the kitchen, Karkat gets up from his spot on the couch and follows, saying, “Is all this..?”

“It’s for you!” you clarify, laying the bags on the ground and starting to unpack everything. You hand things off to Kanaya and Karkat and they put it away on shelves and in the refrigerator. Once everything is put away and the bags stowed under the sink for future use, you think that you’ve never seen their apartment so stocked with food, and you feel wonderful because you’re finally starting to pay them back for all they’ve done for you.

Kanaya bites her lip after putting the last item away, then crosses the kitchen in neat strides to throw her arms around your neck. You’re caught off guard, but you hug her back. “Thank you,” she says, squeezing you tighter. “Thank you so much.”

Karkat comes at you from the other side, clutching you hard but backing off quickly. “I’ll try to get up there weekly for more. I’m going up there anyway for myself; I don’t think my name is in the system at the grocery store down here anymore, since Coldra Caesar is DEAD, so I need to get my food from somewhere. I’ve been eating all takeout lately! If there are more things you want, write up a list and I’ll see what I can do!”

“Thank you,” she says again. She sounds like she might cry, but when you pull back from the embrace, there are no traces of tears in her expression.

Moving into the living room, you settle beside Karkat on the couch. As Kanaya sits on the other side of Karkat, he tries (and fails) to be nonchalant as he asks, “So when’s tall, skinny and demented meeting up with us?”

Sighing, you lace your fingers together and tell him, “Sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but Eridan isn’t coming. He doesn’t think he’s healthy enough to make the trip just yet.”

“Oh,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and falling back into the couch cushions. “Fine. Is there any more news about how he is?”

“Not really,” you say, shrugging lightly. “You could ask him yourself! He might be inclined to tell you more than he’d tell me, since he thinks I’m such a _nag_ , and he was online half an hour ago.”

His thick brows draw together. “Online on what?”

Raising your eyebrows, you reply, “Pesterchum..?”

His mouth opens with a little _pop_ , and he fists his hands in his hair like he does when he’s particularly frustrated. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “I totally forgot he had one, and I haven’t messaged anyone on it in a while. I’ve just been having morons message _me_ , and the joke is that _I_ am the biggest moron in this goddamn city-state, because if I’d just _looked at my fucking friend list._..” Growling a bit, he reaches to pick up the worn tablet on the coffee table in front of you and starts tapping away. It’s cute that his eyes light up when he sees that Eridan is indeed online; maybe Karkat can coax him into coming back down sooner. “I will nag the ever-loving _shit_ out of him when he least expects it,” he continues, typing away. “Just watch me.”

You don’t want to intrude on his conversation, so you just smile at him and turn towards Kanaya, who’s enraptured in a TV show that’s playing on their rickety flatscreen, two corners covered with duct tape and a crack dividing the screen into two lopsided pieces. You suppose the reality TV is helping her de-stress some before going out into the world, so you don’t interrupt and try to watch the show as well.

Soon, Karkat is sliding the tablet back onto the coffee table, a stormy expression on his face. When he glances over at you, you give him a questioning look, and he sighs. “He sent me a picture of what his legs look like now, after I made fun of him for whining.” He swallows, staying hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. “They’re…not in the best shape.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, picturing them how you’d last seen them, surgical scars still vivid on his skin. Mostly they were small incisions, but there were some gashes on one knee and along the outside of a thigh and curving around an ankle. Both of his shins had the skin almost completely scraped off the front of them, and you could tell the replacement skin fused onto him was a shade or two lighter than it should be. The braces were usually cool to the touch despite being pressed up against his body, and the metal was black and smooth. “Can I see the photo? I’ll tell you if there’s been any progress.”

He nods at the tablet and tells you, “The passcode is ‘6969’. It was not,” he hurries out before you can comment, “me who set it. Sollux did something to it so we could never change the passcode, and that’s what he set it to. So much for fucking security.”

You snort and take the tablet, setting it on your lap and inputting the passcode. Pesterchum is still open, and you pull up Recently Closed Chats, tapping the first one and scrolling through without reading any of the words until you see the jpeg file. The scarring isn’t as bad as it was—the lines are faint and you can barely see some of the smaller incisions, but since you knew where they were you can find them—so he’s probably been using scar tissue cream to make the lines fade. (You wonder how the puncture wound in his abdomen is looking now, because you know that had scarred _horribly_.) His legs are thicker than they were, no longer two brittle sticks but still thin, muscle well-defined under his skin. Gulping, you wonder what he’s been putting them through in order to make them look semi-normal again; in the photo, his left knee (the one with the ragged scar across it) looks kind of swollen, so you know he’s most likely done _something_ to irritate it. He wasn’t ready for heavy exercise, and he didn’t seem to understand that.

“They look better than they were,” you comment, locking the tablet screen and placing it back down on the table. Karkat lets out a low whistle, no doubt wondering what they looked like before, but for once he holds his tongue.

You head down to the base of the elevators soon after that. It’s a reasonably crisp night for September, with the temperature hitting around 65, and you’re glad you decided to wear jeans rather than a loose, flowing skirt. Once you get into the protester group, though, it feels considerably warmer—everyone is tightly packed into the square block surrounding the transportation depot, leading up the street both ways and almost wrapping around the corners into perpendicular roads. There are _a lot_ of people here, definitely more than the twenty-five hundred Kankri had told you were in the group back in February.

It takes a while to find Kankri and Porrim in the mob, but as you assumed they would be, they’re at the very front next to the elevator building itself. When you break through the crowd to them, you see that the building is lined with luminaries, each small paper bag emitting a circle of light. You take a moment to look at them and hope no one accidentally starts a fire by knocking one over.

“How many people do you think showed up?” you ask.

“The Captors are using some of the security cameras to take pictures,” Kankri says, absentmindedly picking at the collar of his sweater. “We’ll put them online using an untraceable server and use them to estimate how many people are here.”

Sollux and Mituna have been a lot more active lately—you hope they’re being even more vigilant than usual, seeing as increased activity can also mean their chances of getting caught doing some very illegal stuff is rising. They don’t need you to tell them to be careful, seeing as they’d probably just shrug and laugh your concern off, but you think Kankri nags them both enough about being cautious.

Aradia finds you five minutes before eight, and you chat with her, Karkat, and Kanaya until the alarm on Kankri’s phone goes off, signaling that it’s eight o’clock. He’s the first to sit; Porrim follows almost immediately after, then Rufioh, then Latula. It flows like a wave after that, your group sitting with your legs crossed and shoulders pressed together, linked with the thousands of others that are now also sitting on the pavement. Silence falls, the only noises becoming the rustling of clothing as people adjust their positions and the wind that blows over you, and you have some time to think.

These sorts of protests are supposed to be monthly—there were two before you came back, along with other methods like more flyering and internet activism, because they were trying to prove they weren’t terrorists after Rufioh decided to blow up the justice building—and this one should last until 10pm. Police show up in riot gear within ten minutes of eight, lining the glass doors of the transportation depot. You stare right through them, focusing on no one; the point of this sort of thing is to show solidarity while also being a tad unnerving, which you’ve been told you’re pretty good at!

You’re positioned behind Kankri, and you see his back tense once the cops arrive, and the rigidity never leaves his shoulders. You can also feel the electricity in the air, because one wrong move (well, it doesn’t even need to be a wrong move, it just needs to be _perceived_ as wrong) and you’re toast, since you’re in the very front. Unlike Kankri, who feels like the safety of thousands is his responsibility, you’re not afraid. It takes a lot to scare you, especially when you’re doing something you know is right.

Two hours feels like two days. When it’s finally ten, Kankri is once again the one to initiate movement. He gets up, nodding his head slightly, and the crowd rises almost as one. You get up, brushing off your jeans, and people immediately try to start dispersing, even though they must wait for the people on the outside of the crowd to clear first. You try to see over the heads of people to the clear street beyond, but you can’t; though you’re taller than average for a girl, you still can’t see that far with all of these people in the way.

When you turn back towards the building, you hear multiple gun safeties click off, and your heart jumps into your throat. Kankri had walked forward and now stands a good three feet in front of the police line, hands up in a universal gesture of peace. He says, “I just want to collect out the luminaries,” voice steady.

The woman you identify as the police captain gives a sharp nod and lowers her gun. The others follow suit. Porrim and Kanaya walk forward to join him, and when you move to help, Karkat grabs your wrist. “My brother said he only wanted two people to help him. Less of a chance for trouble, I guess.”

Sighing, you relent. The luminaries were behind the police line before, but the cops step behind them so the three collectors don’t have to weave in and out of officers. They blow out candles and bunch the bags together, as they’ll just be thrown away, and once the three of them have finished their task, the outer crowd has thinned enough that you can begin the steady trek back to the apartment complex.

“The demonstration gala will be in place of this next month,” Kankri says as you walk. “I’m… I’m hoping that will be the turning point of this whole thing. It _has_ to be a success.”

You’ve come to learn that this gala is Kankri’s pet project, two years in the making from the initial idea to now. For his sake—for all of their sakes—you hope it will be enough to lure some of the bucks to your side.

Though you’re generally optimistic, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that this won’t be the thing that sets it all off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is too many pesterlogs for me in a chapter. I'm fuckin done with all this coding. Span class my ass why don't you.
> 
> If you want to read the conversation Karkat has with Eridan, [here it is](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/118053262419/youve-had-his-pesterchum-for-months-and-you)! Also between this chapter update and the last, I did a 4/13 ficlet set earlier along the timeline in the 'verse, so if you're interested, it's on that blog.


	16. XV- 36 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my dear friend Sharktopus for the beta!

Oh, this again.

You groan a little as you sit up, wiping the blood under your nose with the back of your hand. It was only about a few ounces worth this time, you estimate, and your nosebleed is already over. Your fainting spells have been happening once a week since that first time, and you’re getting closer and closer to telling someone about them. Fef would think that they were scary, that they were proof you were still unwell, but you feel like they’re just part of your recovery. You have to get through them if you’re going to get better before October 18th.

Ah, yes—your Angel examination has a date attached to it now, just over three weeks away. You’re stuck between the tumultuous emotions of _fuckin’ finally_ and _I’m nowhere near ready_. The former comes from the fact that if you’d stayed up here like a proper Ampora, you would’ve taken it two years ago; the latter can be explained well enough by the last minute of your life, where you landed weirdly on a tuck-and-roll and blacked the fuck out.

The hologenerator is dark around you, displaying a city at midnight and projecting stars onto the ceiling as you try to clear your head by counting the tiny white dots that pepper the artificial sky. This only makes your headache worse, and you force yourself to get up, pushing away all of the pain you can and pretending nothing is wrong. You still have half of the medium course ring to get through and your time is being recorded, so you’ve lost precious seconds by passing out and trying to regain your bearings, so you’ll have to fly through the rest of the simulation to get a decent score.

There are no more issues as you complete the speedrun, and the computer gives you the mediocre grade of a C+. (Before you left, you’d gotten scores in the A range every time, and so far you’ve only been able to hit one A-. It’s pathetic. _You’re_ pathetic.) You scowl at the display screen, flick it off, then shut down the hologenerator. That’s enough for today.

You’ve made a habit of going to the hot tub after working out. The near-scalding water soothes the ache in your overworked muscles and even though it’s not really _swimming_ , doing light kicking exercises in the water when no one else is in there has really helped your legs. They’ve begun getting re-used to all of the physical strain you put on them, and despite the improvement you _know_ has occurred, when you were supposed to stop taking your hydromorphone-luxaproxin combo and move onto something weaker, you spent a few hours in bed writhing in pain until your dad took pity on your and dosed you back up. He hasn’t tried weaning you off since; it’d just get in the way of your training. Your two sets of follow-up x-rays, performed and interpreted entirely by carapaces, have indicated your healing has slowed down slightly more than estimated since you exited the recuperacoon and had the nanodes extracted, but the bones are knitting together just fine. You don’t know what the fuckin’ hold up is.

When you arrive in the bathroom, it’s empty. You don’t bother locking the door, as the gym was barren today, and you strip down, putting your clothes in a heap and putting your new pair of computer glasses on top of them. Sitting on the lip of the tub, you undo your braces and lay them next to your towel. After taking off the one on your right leg, your foot drops down, toes pointing at the floor; it’s been doing this for weeks now. The braces are designed to mimic the action of walking just as you would stride yourself, and that makes you able to run and jump and use the foot just like you normally would. Seeing it slump almost uselessly is unnerving, even if you can still walk on it with only a bit more pain than you’ve come to accept as normal. This is one thing you _had_ told your dad about, because the first time you took off your braces and saw that your foot did this made you panic, and he’d talked to your doctors and they made adjustments to your physical therapy. He said it’d be back to normal soon, just like the rest of you, but you haven’t really had much improvement so far.

Opting not to think about that too much anymore, you sink into the steaming water, letting it rise to barely lap at the nape of your neck. Your hair is long enough that you needed to cut it a week ago, so you figure you’ll get that done later. You’d almost forgotten what a pretty blond you were until your hair had grown back out to its normal length and you could style it into its usual coif; though you pulled off dark brown pretty damn well, your fine features and light eyes made you a good match for the rich blond hair you were born with.

You’ve closed your eyes and have almost fallen asleep when the door opens. You start, surprised, and turn to blink at the interloper. Abraxas smirks at you, tosses his own towel on the other side of yours, and says, “Goddammit, kid, now I have to go put on a suit.”

“Too fuckin’ bad,” you retort, incredibly glad that the bubbles are hiding your nudity.

He grabs a bathing suit from the rack that’s hanging in the corner, displaying trunks of varying sizes, and goes into an adjacent room to change. You take this opportunity to dart over to the rack and take a swimsuit yourself. Walking without your braces hurts like hell but it’s doable for only a few short steps. You don’t think you’d be able to get it on standing up and balancing all of your weight on one leg at a time, so you just dunk them underwater and yank them on. You’re barely back in your previous spot before Abraxas returns and splashes into the hot tub, sitting opposite of you.

“October 18th,” he sighs, laying back and closing his eyes like you had been positioned when he first intruded. You just hunch over and blink hard, not responding to his words. “You gonna be ready, kid?”

“Of course,” you say casually, forcing yourself into a leaning position, extending your legs and kicking them slowly in underwater. Your right knee keeps popping. They told you it’d do that for a while, but it’s still unnerving. “I’ve only been training for it since I was born.”

“Yeah,” he says with a small laugh, “I guess you have been, with that dad of yours. He’s a good man, but he’s always so goddamn _pushy_. He also told me,” he continues, tone changing into something more neutral, “that you weren’t really in Pasadena.” When you don’t comment and refuse to meet his eye, he shrugs. “But that isn’t really my business.”

“No,” you agree, “it’s not.”

“I don’t mean to attack you, kid,” he says, and the timer announces that you’ve stayed in the tub for your allotted fifteen minutes, “but that was a dumbass kind of move. It’s a good thing you finally realized where your priorities ought to lie. Don’t fuck this up.”

You miss the times when Abraxas was kind to you. He’s one of your father’s closest friends and you’ve known him for all your life, and he’d always kept an eye on you during training when you were younger even when your father asked him to turn a blind eye and make your own mistakes. You remember one time when you were ten years old, doing agility testing on sets of bars strung ten feet above the ground, and the last gap was too big for your short arms even with lots of momentum behind you and you’d fallen, breaking your wrist. You didn’t scream when everyone in the room heard it crack and you didn’t cry; you’d just gotten up and dusted off your pants one-handed, willing your wrist numb. _“Do it again,”_ you father said.

 _“Christ, Seymour, did you hear that snap?”_ Abraxas questioned. You thought he was just trying to embarrass you in front of your dad, so you just went back over to the ladder and started to climb, trying to ignore that your hand wasn’t working quite right. _“He’s fucking_ ten _. Let him go to the clinic.”_

 _“He needs to learn that his failures have consequences,”_ your father responded as you started the routine again. You fell much sooner this time, your arm unable to hold your weight. “ _Again_.”

 _“No, give the kid a goddamn break for once,”_ Abraxas said, pulling you up by your good arm and leading you out of the room. The entire way, you’d protested, telling him that you were fine and all you wanted to do was complete that phase of the training, but you were secretly glad he was helping because your wrist was starting to throb with each step. A couple of years later, you were given to him for shadowing, and you’ve always been glad that you weren’t assigned to your father instead.

“I’m not ten years old anymore,” you say now, stepping out of the tub and toweling yourself off. You force yourself to not immediately put on your braces, instead gathering everything up to move to the shower room. Your joints ache with every movement, and you shuffle your steps so Abraxas won’t see your messed up foot. “I’m not an incurable fuckup.”

He huffs out a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Eridan, I’m saying this because you’re a good kid, and you deserve the truth. You’re not gonna pass in the state you’re in now.” His voice his hard, void of all emotion. “I saw you faint in the hologenerator earlier. You’re in bad shape, kid. Fix yourself before anything else.”

“Fuck you, I’m fine,” you say quietly before walking carefully out of the room, chin high.

You practically fall into the shower, peeling off the swimsuit and turning on the water as you sit down on the tile floor, not caring that the water is freezing at first. Fuck him. You have weeks left before October 18th. You’re going to do _great_.

You have to.

 

* * *

 

Once you get back to the apartment, you do an hour-long physical therapy module then give yourself some time to rest, placing ice packs on your swollen knees, ankles, and even on your throbbing hip. On the tablet Cronus bought you, you scroll through news sites to see what you’ve missed. Most of the stories are generic, but you scroll by one and see “Kankri Vantas” in the tags, so you just _have_ to click on it.

September 27th, 2291

FORMER BURBS UNIVERSITY CHARITY STUDENT PLANS DEMONSTRATION GALA

By Caulkeren Lich

A former genetics student at the University has begun attracting attention after he announced that he would be hosting a demonstration at the well-liked Prospit restaurant just outside of the elevators in the Furthest Ring. Kankri Vantas, the only Level 1 student to ever be admitted to the University, completed four years of the curriculum only to drop out. Now, he seems determined to be a part of our community once again.

“All he wishes to do is reveal information that people in the Burbs have often overlooked or ignored,” says his confidant Aranea Serket, the oldest daughter of interstate trade coordinator Marceline Serket. “He is a brilliant man and a gifted speaker. Even if you don’t care for the topic that will be discussed, you should come just to be exposed to the ever-eloquent Kankri, as well as various others who will be present. It will definitely be a night to remember!”

Miss Serket assured the interviewer that there would be many other familiar Burbs residents present, such as representatives from the Pyrope, Zahhak, and even Peixes families. Though the details of the demonstration have been kept very quiet, the idea of it has stirred some controversy in the Burbs—there has never been record of a demonstration like this happening in the Furthest Ring. People are worried about the political effect something like this could have, but others are intrigued by the idea, calling it a “novelty” and “charming”.

The demonstration gala will take place on October 18th at 8:30pm. Drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, will be provided, and admission is free. If your schedule is clear (and there’s nothing good to watch on television), maybe you should go down and treat yourself to a drink on a thump’s dime.

You feel kind of sick, because you know you would’ve laughed at the joke at the end if you hadn’t known Kankri. Mooching free drinks off thumps sounds like fun! Who the fuck cares about the bill? You, however, know about how he’d turn the air conditioner off in the summer to save money on their electricity bill and he barely ever had enough to eat and he wore clothes until they were too worn to be patched up. You don’t want assholes to take advantage of him, and you know there will be plenty that want to try, because if there’s anything bucks love more than money, it’s alcohol. You hope one of Kankri’s richer friends is footing the bill.

Fef had mentioned the gala to you once or twice before this, but there hadn’t been a date set yet. Of course it would be the night of your exam; though your appointment is at 7pm, you know you’ll be in that building until late that night, dealing with the test itself and (hopefully) initiation after. You don’t really know what’s going to happen when you take the exam. You can only assume that all of the training you’ve been doing—running simulations in the hologenerator, spending hours at the shooting range, doing confrontation scenarios with AI—will play into the examination itself. It’s the initiation after that’s supposed to be the scary part: besides the brain surgery for the omnichip implant, something else happens too. Your dad won’t even hint at what it is.

Despite the fact you know you’ll be ready for it, Fef’s going to think it’s too soon, plus she’ll hate that it’s the night of the demonstration you promised you’d go to. Hey, life happens! You have a career path to follow, and it’s more important than some damn party. Huffing to yourself, you decide that you want to go out; it feels too cramped and lonely in this apartment. Checking openings on the salon’s website, you find out you can get your hair cut in half an hour, so you relax a few more minutes, checking your social media accounts and letting the ice seep into your joints. Soon, you’re stretching and getting dressed for a casual day out, looking dapper in crisp, gray pants that aren’t tight enough to reveal the outlines of the braces clinging to your legs, a white collared shirt, and a purple pinstriped vest with a gold chain hanging out of one pocket. Adjusting your computer glasses (you’ve always looked good in them, and even though you don’t need prescription lenses anymore you still prefer glasses over a watch or computer contacts), you straighten your lapels and head out.

It’s about a fifteen minute walk to the salon, and you decide to tough it out instead of calling for a cab. Your legs need more light exercise—you’ve been pushing them really hard in training, and if you don’t intersperse some normal motion in there, you could end up really fucking them up. Anyway, it’s a nice day, signaling the oncoming fall with an overcast sky and light breeze.

When you’re about halfway there, someone whistles at you, and at first you think you’re getting catcalled but someone falls into step next to you. Your glance to the side confirms that it’s just Vriska.

She dresses like she’s trying to bait you, with high-heeled leather boots that hug her calves, fishnet stockings, a pair of blue high-waist shorts, and a black crop top. Though she’s aware (and constantly rubs in your face) that you have feelings for Fef, she seems to always dress sexily around you, like she knows you’re more apt to listen to her recommendations when she’s clad in something pretty.

“I’m surprised you’re out taking a walk,” she jibes. “Where are you headed?”

“The hair salon,” you say curtly, forcing yourself not to look at her.

She smirks, tossing her own wavy blonde hair over her shoulder. It’s frizzy and looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days, but it somehow works for her. Though some people would certainly criticize her for her lack of proper hair care, you think the unkemptness suits her. “Bluh, booooooooring,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m going to get some etchings on this ol’ thing.” She holds out her prosthetic arm, curling the fingers and acting like she’s flexing her bicep. Joke’s on her—metal arms don’t have muscles.

“You really want to show that off?” you say dubiously.

She scoffs, “It sounds like you want me to be ashamed of it, Ampora. Well, I’m fucking not! As I told you before, I’m _better_ now! Just because _you_ suck doesn’t mean _I_ do. Just like I told Megido, the rest of the world has moved on; you need to stop pitying yourself and just get better legs!”

Her tone makes you think that the conversation with Ray was a recent one. Ignoring her implied advice to hack off your legs and get metal ones, you demand, “You talked to Aradia?”

“Yeah!” she affirms, no guilt in her voice.

Narrowing your eyes, you say, “We had a deal.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t talk to them _at all_ ,” she says flippantly, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. “I just said I wouldn’t talk to them about _you_! There are no broken deals here. I hear Tavros is walking better than you now.” She accents her comment with a kick to the side of your leg, nailing one of the brace supports, and your leg momentarily goes numb. You grab the closest thing to you—which happens to be her shoulder—for support, and once you can walk normally again, you test the boundaries between you by putting your arm around her shoulders, not to lean weight on her or seduce her (fuckin’ gross), but as an act of possession.

What surprises you is that she lets you do it, sliding her hands into the pockets of her shorts. The metal hand performs the action just as seamlessly as her real one, and even though you have decent motor with your two fake fingers, the absence of any trouble on her part in envious. You wonder if she even _has_ to do PT. “What kind of shit are you saying to them?”

“I’m just checking up on how everyone’s doing, honestly!” she says, rolling her eyes. “And _actually_ , I’m pretty damn interested in the stuff that Vantas kid is trying to do. Aranea natters on and on about him _all the fucking time_ , and doesn’t that make a girl at least just a bit curious? If shit’s about to go down, I sure as hell want to be a part of it, that’s for sure!”

Sighing, you say, “You don’t give two shits about the people in the Furthest Ring.”

She snorts, nudging into you in such a way that you almost lose your balance. “Oh can it, like _you do_? Don’t give me that crap, Ampora. You might’ve forgotten who you really are, but I definitely remember.”

You don’t think you care about them as a whole, but you’ve started chatting almost daily with Kar on Pesterchum; he’s your best friend second to only Fef. Though you haven’t talked to Porrim since coming back, you realize sometimes—usually when you’re messing with your hair—that you actually _miss_ her, almost as much as you missed your mother, and definitely more than you missed your father, especially now that he’s back to being his cold, distant self. And Kankri might’ve tried to make you an errand boy on occasion and Rufioh may have tried to get you to pick sides too often, but you don’t think they deserve the shitty hands they’d been dealt in life.

So no, you don’t care for the Furthest Ring as a whole, but you care for certain people. Isn’t that enough?

“And anyway,” you continue like she hadn’t spoken, becoming snide, “wouldn’t you want to be on the winning side when this all comes to a bloody end?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Yeah, I do. We’re at your stop, dumbass.”

You blink hard as she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and wiggles out from under your arm. You _are_ in front of the salon, and she grins, patting your cheek twice. It’s not affectionate by any means; it’s almost like getting slapped. “Now go make your hair look all pretty while those of us with a _real_ destiny go make history.”

“Fuck you,” you say, and she saunters off down the street, never looking back. She says something else—she _always_ says something else—but you’re not listening anymore. You’re pushing your way into the salon.

They shampoo and cut your hair, and with your conversation with Vriska sitting at the front of your mind, you say, “I want to dye it.”

“What color?” the stylist says, taken aback. You don’t think they do a whole lot of color treatments here, besides getting rid of grayness.

“I just want a streak of brown, right here.” You run your fingers from your widow’s peak back, right along the line where your purple lock used to sit.

“We have lots of shades of brown.”

You pick one out (it’s called “maple brown”, whatever the hell “maple” means) and she gets to work. You close your eyes and think of all the times Porrim dyed the purple into your hair, always knowing of your buck heritage and never saying a word. You think of how she joked with you, confided in you, took care of you like you were something precious while keeping your ego in check simultaneously. A wave of nostalgia washes over you, and you’d give almost anything to be in that cramped bathroom leaning over the tub while she bleached the fake brown out of your hair and teased you. The comfy chair you’re in and the better products lack the warmth you’re so used to when getting your hair done. It’s probably because these people aren’t your friends.

Porrim was. You desperately hope she still is, even if you haven’t talked to her in a while.

(You can’t let yourself think about her anymore. She probably hates you for not coming back.)

Gamzee Makara is smoking a joint outside of the salon when you step back onto the street, hair trimmed and new streak in place. You know it can’t be a coincidence, and your suspicions are confirmed when he straightens his back and lopes toward you. “Hey,” you greet, wary.

“Sup, Callon?” he greets, and the use of your fake name makes you grind your teeth. You weren’t sure that Gamzee was capable of mocking anyone without being blatantly obvious about it, but even though his drawl is normal and his question sincere-sounding, you know he’s having an internal laugh at your expense.

“Oh shove it, you know who I really am,” you snap, taking your tablet out and calling a taxi. The estimate is five minutes; it usually never takes that long. “The question is: how long have you known?”

He takes another drag and responds through the smoke, “Ever since I first up and laid my eyes upon you.”

So he went and bought you a drink in a shitty bar while completely aware of who you were. Though Gamzee had never seemed like the curious type, that’s really the only thing that could explain why the hell he’d do that. Now, he offers you his joint—like you’d actually want to put your lips on something _he_ had just been sucking on, _gross_ —and you shake your head. “I shouldn’t.” He just shrugs languidly and takes another drag. “Why didn’t you out me?”

“I figured that a brother would have his reasons for using a fake name and looking all different,” he replies. “And now you’re back.”

“Yeah,” you say curtly. “Back in the Angels, too.”

He shakes his head slowly, his mouth curling like he was sucking on something sour. “I thought you would’ve discovered by now that that’s not the way to go.”

“For you, maybe. For me, it’s the only way.”

Seeming to consider this, he “hmm”s and scratches behind his ear. “Heard you got hurt pretty fuckin’ bad. Legs, right?”

“Yeah,” you snap, the syllable short and clipped. You glance down at your tablet to check for your taxi; only a minute has passed since you ordered it. Great.

“They’re still hurting you. I can tell by how you were walking, all shifty and forward-like, and now by how you’re standing.” You give him a weird look to tell him how _not appreciated_ his comments are, but he just continues, “You still taking shit?”

He must be talking about meds. “That’s none of your business.”

Gam takes it as a _yes_. “They’re not working as good anymore, right? You looking for something that actually makes you _feel_ as good as you want to motherfucking be?”

Hope curls in your chest, but you smash it back down—this is _Gamzee Makara_ you’re talking to, he’d probably try to poison you before shoving something that’s actually _good_ down your throat.

But then again, he _did_ reveal one of his secrets by doodling unnecessarily on a bar tab, and he didn’t tell anyone where you were even though he knew who you were the whole time. (Maybe he was just doing you a courtesy by evening the playing field? He knew you were really an Ampora, and you knew he was vandalizing by painting murals all over the Furthest Ring.) You know the church deals with a lot of drugs, so it’d make sense that Gam has access to _some_ stuff—Delrina, the addict pharmacist at Derse, got half her stock from one of the lower bishops.

“It depends on what you’re offering,” you say slowly, leaving it up to him to elaborate.

“You don’t want smack.” It’s not a question, but his head still tilts to the side inquisitively, his thick hair flopping over his forehead.

It takes you a second to realize he means heroin. “No way,” you say flatly.

Shrugging in a way that seems to say _your loss_ , he says, “I can get you a low-dose fenny patch. That should make you right as rain without impeding on your mental stuff much.”

Eyebrows drawing together, you say, “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“It’s fen-tan-yl,” he says, sounding it out slowly. His tone, coming from anyone else, would be condescending, but the way he says it just makes it sound didactic. “Look it up, it’s some of the most miraculous pain meds on this side of the world. The doctors don’t really think people need to be up and using it anymore, but it’s good for people in your kind of sitch. You won’t get addicted, I’ll promise you that. Only thing is that it’s pricier than the street stuff.”

“How much?”

“$2.4k a pop, and the patches are good for a day.”

That’s about five times the price of the shit you’re currently taking. “You’re not a fuckin pharmacist,” you say. “How do you know this’ll work better than what I’m on now?”

He leans in close to whisper in your ear, “Between you and me, our girl Vriska was in quite a bit of pain when she first got that shiny new arm. This cleared her right up.”

You think of the old savings account you had as a child and have hardly touched since returning. You had around twenty thousand dollars saved up, plus interest. If this worked for Vriska, it’ll probably work for you, too. “Get me a week’s worth, I can have the money ready tomorrow. That is, if you do your side of things.”

He laughs then—a loud, honking sound—and claps you on the shoulder. The pressure makes your knee throb. “Oh my blasphemous brother, you’ll soon see what I can up and motherfuckin’ do.”

Your spine prickles as he turns and lopes away, tossing the end of his blunt on the ground and pulling a new one from his pocket. You turn away before he can light it, and you continue waiting for your cab.

When it pulls up, you get right in, sitting on a piece of paper as you do so. Pulling it out from under you as the taxi starts towards the penthouse, you examine it. You’re not surprised to see that it’s blank—you’ve gotten six of these notes since returning to the Burbs, and each time the message is the same. Doc Scratch is really starting to irritate you.

A few minutes later, you arrive at home, and you head to your desk and rifle around in the drawers for the small black light you’d purchased after your second trip to the tattoo parlor. You find it and turn it on, revealing the lettering that remains unchanged.

TICK TOCK.

You wish you fucking knew what this means! You’d warned Fef to keep an eye out for Scratch, but she says she’s never even _seen_ him down there. You almost want to sneak a gun down there for her, because she should still be able to protect herself from him just in case, but you don’t think she’d ever use it. If only you weren’t such a moron and could understand what he’s trying to tell you besides that you’re running out of time…

Crumpling up the note in your fist, you throw it in the garbage before turning out the light and heading out into the living room to watch TV. Your dad isn’t home and you figure you can get another round of PT in the hologenerator done even if you take a half hour break to watch some shitty sitcom or the news. You turn on the TV, and the image that appears on the screen is mesmerizing and crystal clear. Two fish swim in circles, darting in a half-sweep then slowing rhythmically before finishing the motion, rotating again and again. Glenda Peixes’ company logo—a curved capital H—watermarks the screen, nearly invisible but still noticeably present. This goes on for about ten seconds, then the scene fades to show the countdown: 32 Days.

You’d known the Pisces Program was going on for years because of Fef—her mom had devoted the last five years of her life to the research involved, and she’s been doing it on the side for even longer, but you didn’t know its name until recently. Neither of you know what it actually _is_ , but if your suspicions about the countdown are correct, you’ll know in about a month.

Pulling your tablet out of your pocket, you play some Warlord Gamma while the news plays in the background. You get so frustrated with the game that you almost decide to quit and start a new campaign, but a notification from Pesterchum distracts you.

\--cuttlefishCuller [CC] began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA]--

CC: )(ey, are you at your dad’s place rig)(t now?

CA: yeah wwhy

CC: Is )(e )(ome?

CA: no and once again wwhy

\--cuttlefishCuller [CC] ceased pestering caligulasAquarium [CA]--

There’s a knock at the door, and the security system announces, “Feferi Peixes.”

This has to be some sort of trick or a joke; Fef’s banned from coming back up, but the PA system has never lied to you before. You get up off the couch and answer the door.

And there she is, standing in the threshold and grinning like a loon. “ _Fef!_ ” you exclaim, because a month is a long time to go without seeing her when you’re used to fucking _living together_ and she says, “Hi, Eridan!” in that excited tone of hers and then you’re hugging her, bending over backwards to pick her up. She laughs, clutching you and kissing your cheek, and even though your legs have started screaming because of the extra weight so you have to put her down almost immediately, you keep hugging her as you inch backwards and pull her into the apartment before nudging the door closed with your foot.

After about ten seconds of this, she tries to wiggle out of your embrace, coaxing, “Come on, Eridan, let go!” but you can tell she’s not mad.

You just bury your face in her hair and kiss the crown of her head. “I missed you.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell!” she giggles. “You’re getting so _strong_ again! I didn’t even get to say goodbye to your lanky twig arms. Rest in peace.”

Letting go of her with one arm, you raise it and flex. It’s a rather impressive bicep for a month of work if you do say so yourself, and you waggle your eyebrows. “I gotta compensate for my crazily fucked up legs, Fef, you should see my abs. They’re a fuckin work of art.”

“Vain, vain, _vain_!” she singsongs, finally managing to break free of your hug. You pout slightly, but all she does in response is lift up your shirt.

“See?” you boast, but she ignores your beautifully sculpted torso to run her thumb over your puncture wound scar. It’s not as bumpy as it used to be—you’ve been putting anti-scarring cream on it religiously—and you tell her as much. After that explanation, you take her wrist and move it to your muscled abs. “Now _these_ are what you should be paying attention to, Fef.”

The twinge of insecurity (no, not insecurity, bucks are incapable of being insecure, you guess it’s hesitation or something) that comes when all she does is laugh and pat your stomach—and there’s not even a little bit of jiggle!—makes you want to hunch over and recede into a ball like an armadillo. Maybe she liked you better when you were in shape _enough_ from running around with the BHG but weren’t really muscle-y. Though the muscles are more defined now, you figure you’re still _reasonably_ lanky, since a lot of your muscle is lean and it’s not really prevalent until you flex (except for your eight pack, you always have that, and _you_ think it’s gorgeous). She’s always liked pretty boys! Are you not a pretty boy anymore?

Fef must notice where your train of thought was headed, because she jabs you in the side, saying, “Tell your brain to shut up, you big insecure baby! I like your muscles. There, I said it, feel better?”

“I’m not insecure! And I gueeeeeeeess,” you drawl, looping an arm around her shoulder and guiding her to the couch. You think there’s been a lot of improvements since last time she saw you—when she brought you sushi the night you got out of the hospital, you could barely even hobble around on your crutches and now here you are, walking again and not making an idiot of yourself while doing so.

Once she sits down, she turns to you and blinks, looking unhappy. Surprised at her sudden demeanor shift, you open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, but she beats you to vocalization. “You just did the thing.”

Your brow wrinkles. “What thing?”

“The really elongated vowels thing!” she clarifies. “The Vriska thing!”

“No,” you say, though you realize sickeningly that yeah, you did.

“Yes!”

Sighing, you admit, “Yeah, maybe I did. It was an accident! I saw her today and I guess my subconscious is still kind of hung up on it—”

“Are you hung up on _her_?” she asks, gaze scrutinizing.

You feel yourself reddening to the tips of your ears. “God, Fef, of course not! She’s fuckin _vile_!”

“She’s messaging Aradia again,” she huffs, crossing her arms under her chest.

You pat her shoulder reassuringly. “Yeah, I know, that’s what she was talking to me about today. I tried to get her to stop, I really did! Then she just went on a tangent about the fact that she can do whatever the fuck she wants, and if I try to interfere she’ll tell them about what a eugenics-loving douchebag I used to be and bluh bluh bluh, she’s an idiot. Also, tell Kankri to look out for her because I think she wants to crash a meeting sometime soon.”

Fef sighs, looking over at you. “ _You_ should be the one crashing!”

“You want _me_ to ruin one of Kankri’s meetings?” you question.

“No!” she says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just want you to start coming again!” Then her head cocks to the side, like she’s just noticing something for the first time, and she reaches out, running her fingers through your newly-colored streak. “You dyed your hair.”

“Mhmm,” you respond, suddenly worried because she didn’t say anything positive about it. “I thought it was kind of symbolic, you know? I’m a blond, and the brown, um, represents the Furthest R—”

“It doesn’t matter what you _think_ it represents,” she sighs, putting her hand back in her lap. “Eridan, no matter what they say about it up here, it’s just a streak. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Do…” You swallow, suddenly feeling meek. “Do you at least think it looks good?”

She exhales sharply. “Yeah, it looks fine.” She doesn’t sound sincere, and you feel like an idiot. The feeling of emptiness pops up, and you realize that if you were still on Serenity you’d probably want to cry because you are stressed as shit and Fef doesn’t think you’re hot anymore, but the desire to shed some tears hasn’t appeared. Instead, you decide to try and grab some pity.

You put your elbows on your knees and let your head fall into your hands, and you groan, “I’ve been working so hard to look presentable again and you think I’m _ugly_!”

“When did I say that?” she snaps, and you didn’t mean to make her angry but you won’t apologize. She takes a deep breath and simmers down, her irritation falling away. “Just look at us,” she says. “I haven’t even been back for five minutes and we’re alright fighting. Over whether or not you’re _hot_ , of all things!”

“Well _sorry_ I value your opinion over everyone else’s!” you retort, still looking at the ground.

An incredulous laugh bursts out of her. “Oh that is such bullshit! You’re just saying that to make me feel bad, but there’s nothing for me to feel bad about in the first place because I wasn’t being mean to you. Grow up! And I know for sure you don’t value my opinion the most,” she sounds genuinely pissed again, her hands fisting in her lap, “because here you are, in the Burbs with your father—who’s opinion _really_ matters the most to you—rejoining the Angels and lying to me about your health.”

She’s wrong, but you don’t know how to articulate her wrongness without coming off as a coward. Fef isn’t the only one who’s angry; you grit your teeth and seethe, moving your hands so your fingers curl into the fabric of the couch with enough force that your two metal fingers break through into the plushy interior. You want to tear this couch to shreds, flip the coffee table, chuck the remote at the TV screen to break it—anything to achieve catharsis because you’re getting so _mad_ even though this is _nothing_ —

(You’re eleven years old again and you’ve just shattered a vase and kicked a hole in the wall. Your father smacks you hard enough to knock out your last baby molar out, and you spit the tooth and blood onto the floor and hope desperately that it stains the carpet so a remnant of your rage will always remain. Your mother grabs you by the shoulders before Dad can get another hit in, and she shakes you once, hissing, “Stop behaving like a _monster_ ,” and her grip is like chains, hands strong from hauling ropes and they ground you even as your mouth refills with blood and you forget why you’re throwing this tantrum in the first place.)

(You need to get back on Serenity before all of your GPsy symptoms come back, because you’d hate to hurt someone you don’t mean to or cause unnecessary property damage. You feel your instability creeping back even through the haze your pain medication leaves in your mind.)

When you sneak a glance at Feferi, she’s watching you intently, and you can tell she’s wary because you look like you’re on the verge of a blowout. To spite her more than any other reason, you close your eyes and take some deep breaths, trying to calm down, untangling your fingers from the upholstery and putting your head back in your hands. “Why are you so convinced that I was brainwashed into wanting this?” you ask quietly.

This question seems to surprise her. There’s a pause before she answers, “You’ve been told from a very young age that you needed to go into the Angels, Eridan. You’ve never been the type who likes being told what to do until _this_ comes into play. You may not remember how afraid of Angels you were as a kid, but I do. You’re becoming one because it was forced upon you and you don’t see another way, but Eridan, you have so many other options.”

“I was just a stupid kid when I was scared of them, and it’s not just want my father wants from me. _I_ want it. I just…” You sigh. “I’ve always wanted you to understand and support me, but you never really have and you have no idea how much that _hurts_. And it’s not like I’m becoming an Angel because I want to be a part of I &A, taking people away from their families. I haven’t wanted to participate in that for a long time. Shit’s gonna start going down soon, Fef, and maybe if I’m a part of the so-called ‘enemy’, I can make sure people don’t get their hands on Porrim or Kankri or Rufioh. You’ve said again and again that you just want me to make an informed decision. I have, now let me live with it.”

She runs a hand through her hair, playing with her curls and making her mane even frizzier. Exhaling softly through her nose, she says, “I guess that’s all I can do,” and you feel like she was talking to herself rather than you. Getting up, she stretches, arching her back and saying, “This was always going to be a short visit, I need to buy food.”

You consider begging her to stay, just for the night, but you don’t want to come off as clingy and needy so soon after you just fought so you refrain. You hug her goodbye, and for a moment you just want to spill everything: how much your legs still hurt, that you’re buying off-the-market meds from Gamzee Makara, that you feel like you’re slowly going crazy. Instead, you just hold her for a moment, missing her even though she’s right here, and you tell her you’ll come back down to the Furthest Ring soon. At this point, you both know you’re lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just made a post about how Eridan manages pain [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/120944767894/the-theory-behind-pain-suppression-in-insurgency). If you were ever curious about how the hell Eridan works through some of this shit, here's the answer.
> 
> For some reason, Chapter 16 is slow-going, but I'm shooting to have it up by the end of the month. If you've been thinking something along the lines of, "She said Act 2 was going to be fun! It's supposed to be action-packed with lots of trainwrecks and breakdowns!" then know that your time is coming; though there have been significant plot developments in every chapter so far (even if they can be subtle), we're about to get into the intense stretch. The rest of Act 2 is coming along great, and I'm working on other stuff in the meantime; I just posted the conclusion to my first Homestuck series, _Aquarius_ , yesterday, plus I put out another chapter for my Potterstuck AU. It's been a prolific week for me! I want to have the first draft of Act 2 done by the end of the month, so here's to hoping I'll get that done!


	17. XVI- 22 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd planned to get this up at the beginning of the month, but then Chapter 16 [note: I hate how the Intermission threw off my chapter numbers, ugh, it's 16 not 17] ended up being 3000 words more than I thought it was going to be, so hopefully the extra length makes up for the small delay. Thanks to Sharktopus for the beta, and enjoy!

It’s a week until the demonstration gala and Eridan _still_ hasn’t told you if he can come.

You see no reason why he can’t. Sure, he’s been “training” a lot for some future exam that is hopefully a very long time away, but he’s almost always offline on Pesterchum (and somehow he still manages to talk to Karkat on a near-daily basis; you don’t want to admit you’re jealous of your neighbor, but you are, because at least Eridan acts like he’s still his _friend_ ). You’ve been tempted to go back up and barge into his dad’s penthouse when you’re on another food run, but you don’t want to run into Seymour—or worse, Cronus. You’d just been up there two days ago, so there’s not really another excuse for you to go.

When you see that, for once, his name is lit up on Pesterchum, you take the opportunity and message him.

\--cuttlefishCuller [CC] began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA]--

CC: )(---EY! You )(aven’t told me if you’re coming to t)(e gala next Sunday.

CC: -Eridan?

CC: Blu)(, it SAYS you’re online…

CA: i am just gimme a minute ok fef

CA: learn a little patience wwhy dont you

CC: RUD-----E!

CC: …

CC: ………

CC: ………………………!

CC: ----------------------!

CA: christ are you this fuckin bored

CA: wwhat is it im busy

CC: You’re always BUSY now! I’ve been trying to talk to you for DAYS and I always get “not noww fef” or “another time fef” or “i dont respect you enough to tell you wwhat im actually doin so im just gonna make ---EXCUS----------ES to you fef!!!!!!”

CA: hey that last one wwas all you

CC: It’s just FRUSTRATING!!!

CC: Like, if I t)(oug)(t you were actually doing somet)(ing CONSTRUCTIV-E I wouldn’t be on your ass about it as muc)(, but you’re still supposed to be R---ESTING and you’re NOT.

CA: fef honestly im doin a lot better

CA: did you not notice the improvvement wwhen you came to vvisit me twwo wweeks ago

CA: do you LIKE seein me in pain is that it

CC: Of COURS-E not, -Eridan. Seeing you )(urt makes me feel sick.

CC: I just can’t )(elp but t)(ink you’re just )(urting yourself MOR-----E by using your legs too soon.

CA: fef wwevve talked an talked an TALKED about this

CA: im FINE

CC: T)(en come to t)(e demonstration gala, if you’re R-EALLY “fine”.

CA: no im busy

CC: S----E-----E?

CC: T)(IS is w)(at I’m getting sick of!

CC: You just want to be DON---E wit)( all of us down )(ere, don’t you?

CC: Before, you were just using your injuries as an excuse not to come down, but now t)(at you say you’re fine, you s)(ould )(ave no reason not to come back for a visit!

CC: So you’re either lying to me about your )(ealth, AGAIN, or you N----EV---ER want to come back!

CC: W)(IC)( IS IT, )(U)(???

CA: god fef calm the FUCK down

CA: you on your period or something

CC: 38O

CC: I can’t B-ELI----------EV----E you just said t)(at to me!

CA: …yeah that wwas in poor taste wwasnt it

CA: sorry

CC: So you’ll apologize for a period joke but you won’t say you’re sorry for t)(ings like LYING and AVOIDANC-E?

CA: you knoww wwhat

CA: im gonna provve you wwrong and youre going to feel like a fuckin fool

CA: ill be there in half an hour so you better be home

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]--

CC: -Eridan?

CC: ----ERIDAN????

CC: UG)(!

He’s been snippy with you for weeks, though he’s never said he was going to visit you (out of SPITE) like he just did. If he _is_ actually coming, you know he’s just going to want to fight more in person, and you’re getting so _sick_ of fighting with him! You know he’s stressed out and he’d told you about various “medication adjustments” that have left him with a clearer head, but you wonder at what cost.

You remember all of his tantrums from when he was younger and not on Serenity; you’ll be _so pissed_ if he punches a hole in the wall upon his arrival.

There’s not really much you can do, after that last message. You’d just gotten back from doing a dive job and you still smell strongly of salt and chemicals, so you decide to go take another shower. You would love to linger under the warm spray for hours, but you only allow yourself ten minutes, not bothering to re-wash your hair after the scrubbing you’d given it back at the docks.

Your annoyance has simmered down some by the time he knocks on your door, and you’re dressed in an old pastel skirt and a clingy tank top with your wet hair pulled back into a huge bun on your head. He’s in casual clothes as well, so he obviously had come from his father’s penthouse and not Angel training, and he looks awkward, standing on your welcome mat with his hands in his pockets and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him in one—he only had a couple in his wardrobe down here, and he usually only wore them when the weather had cooled down enough for it.

“Can I come in?” he says quietly.

You don’t like his tone, so you speak louder than you need to. “What, you don’t want them,” you point at the ceiling, “to know you’re here?”

He seems irked by this. “Come on, Fef, don’t be difficult. Just let me in—I used to live here, too.”

 _And you still should._ You open the door wider and let him slip inside. He walks into the apartment without a trace of pain, though you can still see the outlines of his leg braces under his pants. “How was the walk over?” you ask hesitantly, following him to the couch and sitting down with two feet of space between you.

“Fine,” he says shortly, and doesn’t elaborate. You think he had plenty to rant about when he first proclaimed he was coming, but now that he’s here, he can’t seem to find the words.

Sighing harshly, you snap, “Look, if you’re in any pain would you just _tell_ me so I can get you ice or something?”

“If anything was hurting me, I’d say so,” he says through his teeth.

“Then stop being so _curt_ with me!” you exclaim, rolling your eyes. “It makes me think you’re lying.”

“Well I’m not.” He annunciates each word slowly and clearly, the opposite of curt, and it’s so passive aggressive that you resist the urge to groan loudly. “Want me to do a fuckin’ backflip or something?”

“No,” you say, twining your fingers together in your lap. “You’d probably just break the coffee table.”

He huffs, removing his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms over his chest. You notice his fingers are adorned with rings once again, but his prosthetic fingers aren’t in, the two ports plugged up with little plastic corks, and you ask, “Where are your, um..?”

“Fingers?” he finishes, quirking an eyebrow. It’s disdainful, like he’s trying mock you for not knowing how to phrase your question without offending him. It takes a lot of willpower not to scowl. He reaches out and cups your cheek with his damaged hand, not exactly gentle but not trying to hurt you either. “Does it creep you out?”

“No,” you say quickly, taking his hand and moving it back to his lap. Since that sounded suspicious and you don’t exactly want to tell him that it makes you think about that horrible day and how much agony he’d been in, you continue, “Of course it doesn’t, it’s just _you_. I just thought you always wore them.”

“I don’t put them in for physical therapy, which is what I was doing before you interrupted me, so thanks for that.”

“Oh, shut up!” you say. “You _know_ you could’ve just told me that’s what you were doing instead of being all evasive and I would’ve left you alone.”

“Y’know, people used to mock me for never leaving _you_ the hell alone,” he says matter-of-factly. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

Biting your lip, you take a deep breath to steady yourself before calmly asking, “Why can’t you come to the gala?”

He seems reluctant to tell you, but he admits, “I’m taking my Angel examination that night.”

 _What?_ your thoughts scream. “ _What?_ ” your mouth yells. “Eridan, you’re not ready—”

“Yes. I. _Am_ ,” he bites, clenching his fists. “I would’ve been ready _years_ ago, but _someone_ convinced me to take this stupid bet that put me back _years_ in terms of training, but now I’m better and I’m _going_ to take that test next week, goddammit. You can’t stop me, Fef.”

“I shouldn’t _have_ to stop you. You’re brilliant, but you apparently lack a lot of common sense, because someone who just broke their legs in eleven different places— _eleven!_ —should not be doing any strenuous physical activities. Do you not remember,” your voice starts to shake, and you swallow and get some bravado back, “what it was like, immediately after? You begged me not to move you, even though you could barely speak. You’d lost a couple inches of height, because of how badly your legs had been broken. You _screamed_ , like, like…” You stop, unable to go on, but you think you got your point across.

He snorts, unmoved by your words. “I don’t, actually. The last thing I _really_ remember is talking to Vriska; then it’s all just bits, like tumbling as it fell and being stuck in a tiny little space and…” He trails off, then puts on a sneer. “It doesn’t fucking matter! All that matters is I’m doing this, no matter how you try to guilt me into putting it off.”

“Why are you behaving like this?!” you exclaim suddenly, shooting up from your sitting position and turning to face him.

He stands up too, and he smirks at his stupid fucking height advantage. “Like what?”

“Like you _want_ to fight me, or something! I’ve missed you and I want to enjoy your company but I _can’t_ when you’re being so insufferable!”

“I’m not acting any differently than I used to,” he says. “Maybe our time apart has made you think I’m better than I actually am, but I’ll remind you that I’ve always been an asshole.”

“You’re not _just_ being an asshole, though,” you sigh, wishing your hair was down so you could run your fingers through it. “I can deal with Asshole Eridan. This is something _worse_. You were never purposely mean to me, before, and now you’re acting like all you want to do is piss me off so you can yell at something that’ll yell back!”

“So you want me to go on Serenity again, huh? You want me to start taking it _before_ they’ve found out what’s wrong, so I’ll just _die_ and you won’t have to deal with me anymore?”

“No!” you screech, wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “No, of course not you fucking idiot, I just want you to attempt to control yourself because you’re riling me up for fun, I know it—”

“You just don’t like that I can make you this mad,” he interjects. “I never thought that my recovery from the cusp of death would make you _angry_ , Fef, but hell, I guess… I guess you just wish I would’ve died in the rubble because then you wouldn’t have to put up with me _now_!”

“ _How are you pulling this out of your ass?_ ” you demand, and you have to stop yourself from stomping your foot in indignation. “Why are you so obsessed with thinking that I hope you _died_? You’ve always been dramatic, but this is something else, who the hell are you and what have you done with _my_ Eridan?”

Something in him cracks and you don’t know what made him snap from reveling in making you pissed to genuinely _livid_ , but you know it’s no longer a show when he snarls, “I’m not yours! I’ve never fucking been yours! I’m not your fucking pet, _Peixes_ , and what I do and say are up to _me_! Just because— just because I _love_ you doesn’t mean you get to put me on a fucking leash and make me do whatever you want! Just because I _miss_ you doesn’t mean I’ll come at your beck and call. I have my own life now, no thanks to _you_.”

“‘No thanks to me’, you said,” you condescend, putting your hands on your hips and cocking your head to the side in mock thought, “but if it weren’t for _me_ dragging you to safety and calling a damn ambulance, you’d probably be D-E-A-D _dead_! I never even got a _thank you_ from you, and that was _okay_ , because you were hurting and I was happy that you were _alive_ , but now you think you can come into _my_ house and talk to _me_ about how I’m trying to _destroy your life_ when all I’ve ever done is _help_ you.”

The rage melts off his face so quickly that it almost scares you. You say _almost_ because you only feel the fear when a smirk takes its place. “You know,” he practically purrs, “when you talk like that, you sound just like your mother.”

You slap him across the face harder than you’ve ever hit anyone. The second after you’ve done it, you feel disgusted with yourself, because you just proved his point, plus oh God you _hit_ him. He takes the blow like the Angel he’s about to be, hardly flinching and not even registering the pain even as the skin of his cheek turns an angry red. His glasses are slightly askew, but he doesn’t even try to fix them. Regret starts to bubble in your stomach, but before you can let it take control, you hiss, “ _Leave_.”

He blinks, not really expecting that, and his smirk turns back into a grimace. “What?”

“Get out!” you explode, pointing at the door. “Eridan, get the fuck out of my apartment! Go! You’re right, you do whatever the _fuck_ you want, so go mess yourself up! See if I care.”

It was probably the finality in your tone that made him realize you were done more than your words. Swallowing, he blankfaces and turns, folding his arms behind him as he strides from the apartment, slamming the door shut.

Not wanting to worry anyone upstairs, you grab a pillow and press your face into it before you start screaming. You wonder if they heard any of the fight—you _were_ being rather loud. Once your throat is raw and you don’t feel like tearing things limb from limb anymore, you let the pillow fall into your lap as you plop down on the couch. There’s wetness on the pillow, and you think it’s spit until you reach up to touch your face and realize you’re crying.

God, you hope you didn’t start during the fight. It would’ve been embarrassing, since Eridan didn’t shed a tear (he used to cry when you fought and when he was frustrated, but that was while he was still on Serenity and when he was still _sane_ ) and that makes you think of how he _used_ to be when he was with you. Back when you’d joke and laugh and carry each other to bed if one of you fell asleep on the couch and hold hands just for the reassurance and you were unconditionally _there_ for each other. He was your best friend in the entire world, and maybe you could’ve ended up being something more than that because all you know is that you _love_ him, but it doesn’t matter. He chose his side.

You think of his assurances that nothing would change as he fell back into his old life and habits, and his promises that he’d return and everything would be as it should. You think of the kid that trusted you to be his conscience when he knew he couldn’t think straight, and you remember his smile and how warm and wonderful he felt pressed up against you on his last few days in the apartment before the justice building incident. And you let yourself cry for a while, because you can’t help but feel that you’ve failed _your_ Eridan and let this one take his place.

 

* * *

 

Your bad mood persists for the rest of the day. You find that you feel too bad to eat dinner, and when you wake up the next morning, you’re in the mood for some company. You get dressed in your favorite skirt, patterned with bubbles and silver fish, and when you spin in circles it flows out like _whoosh_! You try to make yourself feel better by twirling around, but the dizziness doesn’t make you feel giddy like it normally does—you feel exhausted and ill, like the fight with Eridan sapped all of the energy from you and left your heart hollow, even though it’s been almost twenty-four hours since.

No, he’s not allowed to make you unhappy anymore. Clenching your jaw, you go into the kitchen and drink a big glass of water, pop a couple of crackers into your mouth, and head to Derse. You think talking with Aradia could put you in a better mood. You message her on Pesterchum to make sure she’s at her shop, and when you receive an affirmation, you’re on your way.

The bus system, as always, is tedious, but it gets you a couple of blocks away from your destination. There aren’t a whole lot of people around—in fact, you don’t see anyone inside Derse until you enter Curios and Culminates, where Aradia is tapping away on her tablet as her mechanical foot is propped up on a stool. A large, well-muscled man has pried open a section of the metal skeleton of her leg and is digging around inside of it with some sort of tool. He wipes sweat off his dark forehead with the back of his free hand, and he looks at you from under his sunglasses and starts, nearly dropping his tool. “Miss Peixes,” he greets warily.

“Mr. Zahhak,” you say, stony-faced and dour, but when you meet Aradia’s gaze you can’t help giggling as Ray rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know you and Equius knew each other,” you comment, leaning against the counter next to Aradia’s perch.

“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re the best of friends,” she says, glancing down at him. Equius remains silent. “My ankle joint shorted out and since he’s the one who created all this technology for me, I figured he’d be the best guy to call to fix it.”

You can’t imagine Equius doing that kind of favor for _anybody_ , let alone a level two thump, but he doesn’t refute her claim so it seems to be true. You hum and ask, “Are you going to the demonstration, Equius?”

He coughs loudly and looks around, checking for invisible cameras, and Aradia says pleasantly, “Just FYI, Derse is being watched now. Zahhak here,” she pats his head, and you think he blushes; it’s hard to tell with his skin tone, but he certainly takes on the posture of someone who’s blushing embarrassingly, “thinks any bit of seditious talk is going to get us killed.”

“I just believe it isn’t wise to speak of such things in public,” he says, going back to rooting around inside of Aradia’s prosthetic.

“We are in my random artifact store in the middle of a _literal_ black market on the outskirts of the city,” she says wryly, tilting her chin up. “Even though I know we’re being watched now, this isn’t really the _public_. You just need to watch out when you leave.”

This sounds concerning, but Aradia doesn’t seem worried. “How do you know Derse is being watched more than usual?” you ask.

“Someone spotted an Angel,” she says just as a spark jumps out from her open leg and Equius flinches back slightly before continuing his work.

Eyebrows drawing together, you say, “You don’t just _spot_ an Angel.”

“I know,” she says, shrugging. “That means they want us to know Derse is being watched. Maybe ask Eridan if he knows anything?”

Your anger comes roaring back, and you snap, “He probably wouldn’t say anything even if he _did_ know.”

“Woah,” Aradia says, and Equius pauses in his work, leaning back to sit on his haunches. “Well that’s an attitude change. What’d he do?”

“We’re not on speaking terms right now,” you say curtly, closing your eyes and breathing deeply so you don’t cause a scene. “He’s just turning back into such a buck.” You almost add a “no offense” to Equius, but you think he can take it.

Turns out he can’t. “I don’t see why that’s such a bad thing,” he says, snapping the metal plating back into place. “You should be able to move your ankle now,” he adds to Aradia, and she flexes it back and forth, seeming pleased. Hopping off the counter, she lands loudly and walks around the store, testing it out.

You don’t reply to Equius, and since he doesn’t demand one, you let it drop. The silence is awkward, but it doesn’t bother you as much as it bothers him. He puts his tool in his pocket and wrings his hands together, obviously waiting for something.

Aradia seems to realize this too. She stops in front of him, beaming up at the much taller boy. “Thanks, Equius! What do I owe you?”

“Um,” he says, and you can feel his hard blink even though you can’t see behind his glasses. “It’s nothing,” he manages to choke out. “I… I hope to see you at the gala, Miss Megido.” He turns slightly and nods once to you. “Miss Peixes.”

You’ve never seen a man of his size scurry from a room before. It’s quite remarkable.

“He was even stiffer than usual,” Aradia remarks before sitting down on the stool where her foot had been resting earlier.

“If he thinks he’s going to get drawn and quartered just for coming into the building, why’d he even bother to come?” you say.

“Do they still do that?” she asks inquisitively, tilting her head to the side and ignoring your question.

You just shrug.

“I don’t think it’d be widely done anymore, seeing as Canaveral doesn’t have any horses.” Aradia slides her sneaker back onto her prosthetic foot and reties the laces. You watch how her metal fingers work compared to her natural ones: they seem clunky, less dexterous. However, she has enough control to use them to help tie the shoe, holding down the knot and pull at the right times. You wonder how different it is to have your entire hand replaced versus just a couple of fingers. Does the brain get confused by the different signals, when it’s just part of the hand? Or is it easier with only a chunk gone, because it’s grown off of the real thing?

Unbidden, the image of Eridan using chopsticks with his fucked-up hand the day he left the hospital springs into your mind, and you shove it away.

“So why don’t you seem freaked out by the Angels being around?” you ask.

“I think they’re just here doing a drug bust,” she says. “You _have_ to know about the feud they have going with the Church. The pharmacist here gets her drugs from her partner, who’s a lesser bishop on the Makara estate.”

“Delrina?” you clarify.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Normally they’ve just let it go, but it seems like they’ve been watching her, specifically—she’s the one who saw the Angel, so it would make sense that she’s the one who’s being threatened. The Church makes a lot of profit through their pharmacy here, so it was only a matter of time before the Angels started targeting her.”

“Are you sure the Angel wasn’t just a hallucination?” you ask. Delrina _was_ the kind of person to do a little PCP on the side when things got slow here.

“It sounded legit,” Aradia says. “Now that Equius is gone, tell me more about Eridan. What’d he do to piss you off so much?”

“We fought,” you say, shoulders drooping. “Well, he _picked_ _a fight_ with me on Pesterchum, about not coming to the gala, and he ended up coming down here to act all high-and-mighty and scream some more. It wasn’t pretty. I ended up kicking him out of the apartment.”

“When was this?” she asks, concerned.

“Yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, hopping off the stool. “C’mere.” She opens up her arms, and you don’t really hesitate before letting yourself be hugged. “Eridan was being an awful douche, okay? His behavior isn’t your fault.”

It doesn’t really surprise you that Aradia picked up on what was really bothering you about it. “But I tried to _save_ him,” you say, curling your fists in her shirt.

“Yeah, you tried,” she says, sounding sympathetic. “It’s him who resisted. You did all you could.”

“He said I was just like my mother.”

“If you were anything like her,” she says, pulling out of the embrace and sitting on the counter, “you wouldn’t be here talking to me right now, would you?” She pats the spot next to her, and you hop back up, pressing your thigh against hers. The metal is warm, like a humming engine.

“I’ve always thought there was more of my father in me,” you say, twirling one of your curls around your fingers, “but I can’t be sure; I’ve never met him. Hell, I don’t even know a single thing about him!”

“Then maybe he doesn’t exist,” she jokes, and you snort, shoving her shoulder. “My father was a Felt member,” she says, serious once again as she swings her legs slowly back and forth. “I don’t know which one. I never cared to; they’re all the same, really. I think Damara’s dad was Felt too, but I doubt it was the same one. Finding out his exact identity didn’t matter to me—who mattered was my mother, and what she did to keep the family afloat. She was never the warmest or the most affectionate, but I still know she loves us. Why does it matter to you so much who your father is or isn’t?”

“Because my mother _doesn’t_ love me, like yours does,” you burst out, and you see the pity on Aradia’s face and she opens her mouth to say something, but you continue. “I don’t care that she doesn’t—as soon as I realized what she was, I didn’t love her either. My father _matters_ because _she’s_ such a monster, and I can’t have two reprehensible parents. But then I think that he _had_ to have been a demented person, because who else would fuck her?” You spirt out a laugh. It sounds loud and very bitter.

“Well, I know who she _should_ fuck,” Aradia says decisively. When you raise your eyebrows, she singsongs, “ _Herself_!”

Your laugh is more genuine this time, and you lean your head on her shoulder. Her skin is warmer than the metal; you’d almost think she has a fever, but her eyes are clear and there’s no flush on her face. “Yeah, fuck her,” you say, but the sentiment feels kind of empty.

She takes you to Buster’s, and you split an appetizer and chat, Aradia channeling her excitement for the gala in the hurried way she eats the fries between you. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen Sol dress up,” she says, twirling a particularly burnt fry between her fingers. “He looks sharp in a suit.”

You’ve seen Eridan in suits quite a bit, though not recently. People always used to say what a gorgeous couple the two of you made when you attended demonstrations together in the past, but no one will have the opportunity to say it this time.

“He’s been telling me about some of the stuff he’s been reading, too,” she continues, stirring the straw in her drink, “off that chip you gave him of banned books. He’s dug up some old manuals that are helping him fill in some holes in his father’s code.”

“His dad was into computer science too, then?” She nods. “I didn’t know that ‘the family business’ was really a thing down here,” you say wryly, propping your chin on your hand. “I thought it was more common for kids to go _away_ from their parents’ professions.”

“Well, Captors usually have an affinity for tech, if I understand his family history, which I think I do.” She sighs, the corners of her mouth turning down. “Mituna isn’t happy with you, you know—he thinks you’ve endangered Sollux by giving him access to the Heresies. I told you before, right? About…”

“His parents disappeared,” you say, looking down at the table.

“Yeah,” Aradia says softly. “Mituna has been trying to keep their interference ‘harmless’. He jokes about being able to take down the entire grid, but honestly, they wouldn’t be able to do it because he keeps self-sabotaging; they’ve always been into dangerous stuff, but they keep it quiet enough to fly under the Lord English’s radar, even when hacking _into_ Lord English. Sollux thinks his hesitance is ridiculous, and now that he has access to new material, he’s working on rebuilding the program that his parents were taken away for.”

“What does it do?” you ask. It must be something big, if it got _both_ of them into that much trouble.

She shrugs. “Beats me. He wants to keep it quiet, just between him and Mituna, in case it all backfires. The only thing that I know,” she nudges your toes under the table with hers as she drops her voice to a whisper, and you remember that Derse is most likely being watched, “that it’s called Calliope.”

 

* * *

 

The dress arrives the day of the demonstration. You’d planned to go shopping and find something later today, but when you opened the front door there was a slip saying to come to the main office of the building to pick up a package. Bemused, you go to get it and see that the box is labelled with Meenah’s favorite designer in the Burbs, and then take it back upstairs to look at it. The dress unfolds well, contained in a plastic wrap that has made sure the dress didn’t wrinkle, and honestly, it’s gorgeous—long and lean, with a split down one thigh that folds into ruffles, all dyed a deep fuchsia and accented with black. The neckline is a deep V, reaching up to wrap and tie around your neck, and it’ll probably be tight against your stomach. You try it on to make sure it fits, and you may have to pin the straps to hike it up more and the hem sweeps the floor, but otherwise it’s suitable. You’ll have to wear your only pair of heels with it, and they’re a strappy, silver pair that don’t really go with the dress that well, but they’ll have to do.

Looking at yourself in the mirror feels kind of weird. You force the thought, _Look at what he’s missing_ , into your head, but it feels wrong. Instead, you’re left staring at your features, because fuchsia is the favorite color of the entire Peixes family and you can’t help but imagine your mother in this gown. Swallowing, you gaze instead at your nose, your freckles, your round cheeks and big eyes—all things _she_ doesn’t have, coming from the sperm side of things. You’re left wondering once again about your father and how he had to have been somewhat sane in order for you to make any sense. You had to get your anti-classist tendencies from _somewhere_ , right?

Sighing, you take the dress off and hang it up in the closet for later, and get dressed in a much more casual skirt and top. You’d scheduled today off, and now you kind of regret it—there’s not much to do besides wait for the gala to start. Instead of just watching TV or pacing, you grab your tablet and decide to go read on the roof.

There’s a fire escape outside of your living room window, and you push it wide open, making sure not to close it all the way before ascending the rusty, rickety stairs. As per usual, there’s no one up here, and you sit with your back against a vent sticking out of the roof, opening up the Heresy drive.

Though the Heresies are often simplified to banned books, there are other things as well: movies, speeches, articles. You find a TV show that seems good and watch an entire season of it, watching how the political process used to unfold while also being amused by some of the outrageous things that happen. It’s a decent way to pass the time, more entertaining than reading book after book, and soon it’s time to shower and get ready for the demonstration.

An hour before the gala is set to start, you get a message from Porrim, offering to do your hair. You slip into your dress and keep your shoes off for now, holding them in your hand as you head upstairs and knock on their door.

Kanaya lets you in, and her hair and makeup is clearly done already—her green eyeshadow and lips are striking, and her teeth seem extra white. You smile at her, teasing, “So who’re you trying to impress?”

“No one,” she says too quickly, and even though her blush doesn’t show on her face, you see it creeping up her neck.

You waggle your eyebrows at her and she tells you to hush, ushering you over to the bathroom. Kankri is leaning on the doorframe, nattering on and on while reading off of index cards. You look past him into the room; Porrim is standing in front of the mirror looking vaguely annoyed while curling her hair, and when she sees you, she gestures for you to come in. Dipping under Kankri’s arm, you sit on the lid of the toilet and wait for her to finish with her hair while Kankri recites statistic after statistic. Numbers whirr through your head, and you can’t keep track of all the information: he talks about bread prices and arrest rates and homelessness, and you can hardly wrap your head around one sentiment before he moves on to another.

“I hope you don’t speak this quickly at the gala,” you say, feeling overwhelmed.

Porrim snorts and puts down the curling iron, unplugging it before moving on to you. She shoves a clip into your hair to start, and the cheap plastic snaps when forced to ensnare too much of your mane. Spitting out, “Fuck!” she digs out another one.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly.

“You’re missing a lot of your roots when you re-dye,” she says, trying to untangle her fingers from your curls. “I need to style it so all of that’s covered up. You get your part, sure, but there’s a lot of shit on the back of your head that you miss.”

“You dye hair at your salon, right?” you ask.

“It’s not _my_ salon,” she corrects, sticking a comb in her teeth as she digs out a straightener and plugs it in, “but yeah.”

“I’ll start coming there instead of doing it myself, then,” you say, wondering why you hadn’t thought of this before. Habit, probably. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide the fact that I dye it anymore.”

Porrim grunts and turns the temperature up on the flat iron to the highest it’ll go. “I’ll just do some braids tonight, since we’re running short on time,” she says. “There’ll be two strands that’ll connect at the nape of your neck, and another one in the center so I can braid the braids. It’ll suit you.”

Kankri has been completely ignoring your conversation, still going over statistic after statistic, and when he pauses to shove that deck of flashcards into his pocket and pull out some more, Porrim groans. “Kanny, is this _really_ what you’re going to do until we leave?”

He blinks down at his rumpled sweater, like she’s implying that he’s not ready to go. It’s the nicest outfit you’ve ever seen him in—the sweater is soft-looking and bright red, marking him as a target, and his black slacks are pressed and crisp. “Well, there’s nothing else for me to do.”

“How about de-stress?” she says.

“Yeah,” you agree, crossing your legs. “I mean, if you’re getting out all the fear now, great! They’ll smell it on you there.”

He rubs a hand over his face, looking tired. “I know how to deal with bucks,” he says monotonously. “I’ve been to demonstrations before.”

When he was still at the University, probably. “Then I’m sure you’ll do great!” you encourage, smiling. He gives you a weak one back. “Just… be careful.”

“I know.”

* * *

 

Demonstrations work like this: generally, there is one speaker. They usually show off a new piece of technology or a new surgical technique or new discovery, but how Kankri has planned this, it’s didactic in a different way. First, he speaks. He does not need the flashcards that he was using earlier. His statistics flow into the tale he is weaving of life in the Furthest Ring—a tale about shortages and poverty and brutality. He shows pictures of the peaceful protests that were held at the base of the plateau, explaining their purpose; he somehow has acquired video from other events, like the bread riot back in February (which he’d disapproved of, if you remember correctly) and even the protest in front of the justice building that was a distraction for smuggling people out. He talks about what the Angels did leading up to that and mentions I&A so everyone realizes that he is in the know.

You see what happened while you were in the building, herding people out. There is no sound, but you see peoples’ mouths move, yelling and chanting. You see as someone starts to approach one of the officers dispatched in riot gear, the protestor seemingly unthreatening, and then they are on the ground. A chunk of concrete is thrown at the officer from off-screen and it misses, shattering a window. That cuts out and it shows what happened after, shattered glass coating the streets as tear gas fills up the lens, turning people into frenzied shadows as they run. Different footage—it’s clearly from a security camera, and your stomach drops because even though all forms of civilian recording are illegal, getting footage that obviously doesn’t belong to you is something else entirely—show debris in the street and three bodies on the ground, trampled, as the police sweep the area. They are kicked aside and disregarded; one is even shot when it twitches. It was a child.

There was absolutely no news coverage of this in the Burbs; you’d watched desperately for any word on the riot and the aftermath, but there hadn’t been a peep about it. You had no clue that all of this had gone down, since you’d been in the building until the very end and you’d hardly paid any attention to your surroundings once you were dragging Eridan around. No wonder everything was so deserted. You remember seeing broken windows in nearby buildings and thinking nothing of them; now, you realize that it was lucky the death toll wasn’t higher than it was.

“This is why,” Kankri says, voice clear, “cameras have become illegal. They do not want you seeing things like this. They want you to believe everything is fine, and they don’t want you to care about what’s really going on, because then you could open your eyes and see the fallacy all of this is. I will not be taking questions now, but once I am off this stage, you may come speak to me; I will be here until midnight. I, however, am not the only one here who can answer your questions. Any one of the people standing here in front of me are more than qualified. Thank you for listening, and I hope you were enlightened by tonight’s proceedings.”

It’s short, all things considered. That is probably why this was advertised as a demonstration _gala_ and not just a demonstration. A lot of this event is focused on bucks meeting people that want to educate them about how fucked up everything is, and that sort of thing is more easily done on a personal level. It’s more exhausting that way, but you do believe that Kankri is well prepared.

On the other hand, Rufioh looks lost. He hasn’t been as verbose lately—you think that he was shaken by the events that nearly broke Eridan, because he was the one that started it all. Now, he appears meeker than you’ve ever seen him, and his corduroy pants and white linen make him appear soft, even with his loud red and black hair. As he sits down on the edge of the stage, people begin flocking to him immediately, and you decide to leave him be. Liking him was always Eridan’s thing, anyway.

You seek out people that you recognize from the Burbs. Aranea and Latula have been avoiding you ever since you announced yourself, so you don’t even try to talk to them, and they seem pretty busy even without your interference. Kurloz Makara is standing near one of the grand arching exits from the Prospit dining area—which had been cleared of most tables to accommodate more people—with the girl Kankri seems to be enamored with, Meulin. You hardly recognized him without the makeup that high-ranking church officials and their families wear; for once, his eyes aren’t surrounded by circles of black and you see that under where his lipstick usually lies, he has black tattoos of string, making it appear as if his mouth has been sewed shut. You’re about to look away when Meulin leaves his side, seeming annoyed, and he takes on the appearance of someone who’s just been dumped. Huh.

There isn’t a shortage of people to talk to—you run into one of your mother’s old secretaries, Dirk Strider, and Aradia (just to give yourself a break)—but you still find Kurloz again an hour later, and this time, you approach and greet him. “Hi, Kurloz,” you say, smiling. “Do you remember me?”

At first, you think he’s not going to speak, but then he says, “Miss Peixes.” His voice is very deep, but not loud.

“Call me Feferi,” you say. “Are you enjoying the gala?”

He shrugs. “It’s a way to pass the time.”

His gaze isn’t on you; he hasn’t looked at you once. You follow his line of sight to Kankri, where he’s standing in the center of the room with a throng of people surrounding him, and say, “If you want to talk to Kankri, I’m sure I can—”

“I don’t wanna talk to Vantas.” His voice is much louder now, and you blink hard. He was almost yelling. Just like that, he’s turning on his heel and striding from the room, leaving you facing an empty wall.

Well that was strange.

You talk to more people, gushing about how brilliant Kankri is and how important all of this is, and then for the first time in a while, you catch sight of Porrim.

Her shoulders seem very tense, and every buck here knows it. They don’t seem to be paying her any mind, though; she’s able to blend with the crowd as easily as any tat—which is to say, not all that well. You approach her and put a hand on her shoulder and she jumps, some of the liquid sloshing out of her drink, and she glares at you. “Sorry,” you apologize, “I wasn’t trying to startle you.”

She sighs, looking down at the ground, and says, “It’s not your fault that I’m so fucking edgy right now.”

“What’s wrong?” you inquire.

Her voice drops low, and you have to lean in to hear her. “There are Church people _everywhere_.”

You know she doesn’t mean just religious people; if so, she’d be included in that assessment. No, she’s talking about the Mirthful Church, run by the Makaras. You know Kurloz is here, since you had spoken to him not long ago, but you don’t think one person counts as _everywhere_. “How do you know?” you ask, matching her quiet tone.

“I recognize them,” she says. “I grew up there. Did Eridan not tell you?”

 _Eridan_ knew? “He didn’t,” you say, syllables clipped.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Sounds like you’re not happy with him. Is he coming?”

“No,” you huff. “We fought, he said he was taking his Angel examination tonight.”

“Well, shit,” she says, bewildered. “Good luck to him, then. Or maybe I should say bad luck, because…” She swallows. “Is it bad that I _want_ him to fail? So he doesn’t become… _that_?”

“I get it,” you say softly. You clench your fists in the fabric of your dress, then smooth out the wrinkles you made. “I’ve never wanted that for him, but apparently,” your tone turns snide, “he knows best.”

Porrim hums and goes back to staring into her drink. “Have you sensed any of them here?”

You have to think about it. You haven’t really detected any holes in your perception, so they’d have to be in civilian dress, and you think you’d definitely recognize any of the active Angels. However, this is exactly the kind of event they’d want to crash; they hadn’t even tried to prevent it, and now that you think about it, you start to feel sick. If they’re staying out of it, they have to have some motive for doing so. “No,” you reply.

“I can see why they’d stay away,” she says, and you connect what she pointed out before with what she just brought up. _Oh_.

The Angels and the Church refuse to run in the same circles.

“I would’ve preferred them, honestly,” she hisses. “Not everyone knows what the Church can do, and that makes them even more dangerous.”

More dangerous than an auxiliary police force? You doubt that. But by the haunted look in Porrim’s eyes, you know she must have her reasons for thinking so, and she probably knows a lot more about the Church than you do.

“What do you think they’re doing here?” you question.

She doesn’t answer at first. Pursing her lips, she contemplates her answer for an unnerving amount of time before saying, “They’re watching.”

You start to move away to talk to more people, but by the way Porrim tenses back up, you decide to stay in her corner for a while. It’d feel weird to leave her alone when she’s pretty damn distressed. You chat for a while, letting her talk about her dumb manager and weird schedule, and she starts to relax, little by little. Eventually, she moves to talk to Aranea and you head to the other side of the room only to find that your sister has found Kankri and has looped an arm around his shoulder.

This can only end terribly.

“Meenah!” you say, forcedly cheerful, grabbing her elbow and smiling at her. She stops whispering in Kankri’s ear—he looks like he’s about to blow a gasket, his face matching the color of his sweater—to peer down at you. You open your mouth to say something defusing, but Kankri beats you to words.

“I won’t let you ruin this,” he says through gritted teeth.

She ignores him. “Hey, Feffy,” she greets with a grin, patting your cheek. “You and Kankles been getting along?”

“Better than you two do!” you say, trying to remain upbeat. Your smile is very thin. “Come talk to me _over there_.” You tug on her arm.

“We’ll finish this later,” she says, blasé.

“Oh, just fucking _leave_ ,” he snaps. Nearby people turn their heads, and you force your smile into something more conciliatory as you make eye contact with those who have noticed and drag Meenah to the cocktail table.

As you walk with her, you notice that Meenah looks strikingly like your mother in a black suit with fuchsia pinstripes, her long hair flowing around her hips as she struts next to you in her favorite pair of high-heeled boots. The walk, the suit, the jewelry, the smirk on her face—it’s your mother’s aesthetic through and through, and suddenly you don’t want to be seen with her, even if she is your sister. “Aww, little sis, you always know exactly what I want,” she says condescendingly, reaching down to take a glass. She downs the champagne in a gulp and puts the glass back down. “Shitty,” she comments.

“You still drank all of it,” you say, letting some of your irritation through.

She shrugs, then pouts. “Guppy, you didn’t even thank me for the dress. It looks fuckin’ gorgeous on you, don’t it?” You begrudgingly admit in your head that yeah, it does. “I forgot to send shoes to go with it, though. Ick.”

“Why’d you even send it?” you question.

“Why can’t I want to do something nice for my sister?” she counters, eyes narrowing. “Just because you wanna forget about me doesn’t mean that I wanna forget about you. You’re family.”

“Family isn’t everything.”

She groans, rolling her eyes. “Did Kankri tell you that? Look, I’ve known him longer than you and he is so full of _shit_ —”

“He is _not_!” you snap. “I will not be happy with you if it turns out that you only showed up to harass him!”

“Nah, Aranea wanted me to come.” She snorts. “That girl has no fuckin’ clue that I even know him.”

So she didn’t know what a bad idea that would be. Well, she should’ve known by the virtue knowing Meenah, but Aranea isn’t always rational when it comes to her. “Well, you’ve been here long enough. I think you should go.”

“I don’t _care_ what you think.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re acting like you gotta babysit me; I’m twenty-fucking-two, so I don’t need you telling me where I need to go and what I have to do. Come on, where’d he go?” She starts scanning the room for Kankri, and you can’t help but look for him at the same time. You both find him almost simultaneously; he’s standing with a group of bucks, including Aranea, who’s laughing at something with her hand on his elbow.

Meenah blankfaces. It’s a strange sight; you haven’t seen your sister do it in a long time. She says, “You know what? I think I _am_ gonna go. But first, don’t you wanna hear about Eri’s exam?” She raises a patronizing eyebrow with a thin metal rod pierced through it while keeping the rest of her expression carefully controlled. “The feed update just got released.”

There are three ways it could’ve gone: he passed, he failed, or he’s dead. Though Meenah’s tone rules out the last option, you’re not sure which of the other two you want to hear. If he passed, there’s no turning back. He will be a part of one of the most feared organizations in Canaveral, and the person you saw yesterday will be the new reality of him. If he failed, then he’ll have one more opportunity before his mind is wiped of anything Angel-related and he’s sent out on the street.

(Even now, they’re not as good at memory altercation as they wish to be. If they removed all Angel information from his mind, he’d probably forget large chunks of his childhood and his identity; hell, he probably wouldn’t even remember who his damn father is, since he and the Angels are so tightly intertwined. You don’t want a wiped Eridan, even if ridding him of the Angelic part of his person could possibly make him better. Kinder. Smarter. On the chance the two of you aren’t ruined after the week before’s fight, you would still lose most of him.)

“No, I don’t,” you say slowly, even though part of you is burning to know. “I’d rather find out on my own.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Now I’m gonna blow on out of here, but keep an eye out.” Her expression turns from disinterested to devious, and she traces a finger across the neckline of your dress before leaning in and whispering in your ear, “Just so you know, word is that Marceline Serket is gonna show her face.”

That’s impossible. Vriska and Aranea’s mother hasn’t gone out in public in over a decade.

Meenah leaves then. Closing your eyes, you regroup, listening to voices around you and trying to pick out any familiar ones. You can’t; you dragged your sister to a portion of the room where people you know couldn’t overhear. Now, you head back to the more comfortable area, coming up behind Aradia and Sollux to join them in speaking to a pair of blondes.

Oh, you realize a second too late who they are. The girl gives you a thin, black-lipped smile, eyes sparking with a bit of mirth. “Feferi,” Rose Lalonde greets, extending a gloved hand. You shake it firmly. Her brother just nods to you in greeting, eyes hidden behind a pair of bright red sunglasses that match the garish heat of his suit. “I’m glad to see you here. It’s been so long, how have you been? Still getting into trouble, I hope?”

“Always,” you say, showing her a smile with too many teeth. “Are you still working on that doctorate?”

“Always,” she responds, mirroring your expression. It’s something she’s done since you were children—she saw how it unnerved people and ran with it. You’ve always found it interesting; even if you and Rose act rather icily towards one another, you’ve always enjoyed her company more than a lot of other bucks. Your actions towards each other are a game, almost. Dave is already drifting to another segment of the gala, and Rose catches his elbow before he can stray too far.

“Rose, come on,” he urges, tugging out of her grip. “You promised we could get some of those girly drinks. Y’know, the ones with the umbrellas.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, since you know there’s no such thing at _this_ demonstration, but Rose just nods. “Excuse us,” she says, going off arm-in-arm with Dave.

“She’s so pretty,” Aradia says, staring after them.

“He has a fucking bowl cut,” Sollux adds.

Later, you see Rose again, sans Dave. She’s leaning against the bar taking to Kanaya, who’s showing her the stitching on the sleeve of her dress. Rose is nodding along, enraptured, and it doesn’t escape your notice that she slides a hand onto Kanaya’s knee to lean in and take a closer look.

You consider going to talk to them—you really are interested in what Rose has been up to—but then you sense it. Others do too; you can tell it in the way the crowd shifts, moving as if pushed lightly aside by a soft breeze.

There is an Angel here. Despite the Church presence, and despite their lack of intervention earlier on.

To try and distract yourself, you talk to an older woman who also seems preoccupied, but she still asks you questions about who you know and who you’ve seen here as she picks at a stray thread hanging off her clutch. You try to respond politely to her questions and nod when she’s speaking so she thinks you’re paying attention, but you can’t take your mind off the static that the Angel is creating by being a hole in your awareness. However, somewhere in the middle of the conversation, the abnormality is suddenly gone, and your shoulders droop slightly with relief.

You don’t know what caused it to go away—did the Angel leave, or did it simply become visible?

You’re not sure you want to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news for you guys: there definitely won't be a hiatus during my fall semester of college this year! The next two chapters are pretty much done (and they're longer than usual, too; I may have to cut stuff, but we'll see) and I've started each chapter in the rest of Act 2, plus the intermission is already written. As my plan is to drop the Act 2 finale at the end of December (bluh that seems so far away now, but there are five chapters leading up to it), you should at least have updates until February, when all of my pre-written chapters will probably run out. Hopefully I'll have worked on Act 3 by then, but we'll have to see how my fall semester/winter break goes.
> 
> Also, I wrote another ficlet for this 'verse [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/123489059269/if-its-not-too-spoilery-some-young-eridan-and-fef), just in case you didn't see the tumblr post about it.


	18. XVII- 15 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note on the "Days" counter: it might be kind of confusing right now, since the last chapter ended with the gala and now it's DAYS LATER! However, if you don't remember, when last chapter started out it was a week before, so that's what the counter was referring to. The gala is still in full swing--at least, during the second half of the chapter--but Eridan has other things to do.
> 
> Also, if you didn't notice in the email, this chapter is pretty long; it's second in length only to the Act 1 finale. The average length of chapters in this fic is probably around 7500, and this one is about 12000. Chapter 18 is in the same boat. I hope you like the extra length instead of thinking "oh great even MORE bullshit to read". I tried to cut it down, I really did.

The pills glide down your throat easily, accompanied by a swallow of water. The area of sticky cloth on your spine that releases pain meds used to itch, when you first started using the patches, but you’ve become accustomed to having one on your back at all times, just like you’ve become used to syringes and the feeling of bulky Serenity capsules making their way to your stomach.

It will take more than a week back on Serenity to start feeling like you used to, but a bit of your psyche has already started to morph as your head has cleared for the first time in months. You feel guilty about the things you said to Fef, when you fought with her; you feel deeply wounded by the barbs she’d thrown back at you. Your manic nervousness about your Angel examination—today, _today!—_ has faded into something more mellow, more certain. Serenity hasn’t calmed you to the bones, yet. It hasn’t made you feel in control of yourself again. Luckily, it hasn’t made you want to go running back to the Furthest Ring, either.

Right now, though, as you sit in the bathroom at Angel Initiative headquarters, ten minutes from your designated examination start time, you want to cry.

It’s been months since you’ve felt threatened by tears—and you know they won’t fall now, however much you want them to—and it isn’t exactly a welcome feeling. You’ll let yourself cry in private after the stress of this fucking day is over, and no sooner. You almost wish your dad _hadn’t_ let you begin taking it again. He’d come to you days ago, barging into your room as you were squabbling with Karkat on Pesterchum. _“Eridan,”_ he’d said, and you’d only heard him speak so gently once—when you woke up for the first time at the hospital. _“Eridan, they know why your mother died.”_

And the reason made you _scared_ , made you aware that someone was always listening and wanting to take control. But you kept your emotions off your face and allowed him to dose you back up, because you’d punched a hole in the wall and shattered your new tablet’s screen after your fight with Fef, and you knew that the rages that came to you from GPsy were just as capable of breaking people as they were of breaking things.

There’s a knock on the door, and at first you don’t respond as the handle shakes, but then your father’s voice says, “Eridan, I know you’re in there.”

You get up and walk the few steps to let him in. Your gait has a weird lilt to it, probably from the fact that you’re almost completely numb from the waist down, but you can walk and run and jump just fine, so the patch is doing a good job. The rigid heel of your boot keeps your bad foot from flailing all over the place, and the toe hardly dips down as you walk, but you feel like it could easily mess you up in the physical aspect of the exam.

It seems like your father also thought this, because when you open the door, he has a brace in his hand that’s the color of your skin and made of a combination of velcro, unyielding plastic, and thin padding. “Here, for your foot. It’ll be hidden in your boot, so no one will know.”

 _This is cheating_ , you mind screams, but then you think of how embarrassing it would be—for both you _and_ for your family name—if you did something as stupid as _tripping_ during your test. Taking the brace, you go back to your seat (the lid of a toilet) and tug off your boot, ignoring how the pain flares for a moment before the meds amp up, and you slide your foot into it. One velcro strap winds around your calf, and you tighten it as much as you can handle before putting your boot back on.

“Does it work?” you dad asks. Getting up, you walk out of the stall and then bounce on the balls of your feet. Your foot behaves much better, and you nod. “Then I don’t see why this shouldn’t go seamlessly,” he says, motioning his head for you to follow him out of the bathroom. He leaves you in the waiting room outside the examination office on the top floor of the building without so much as a _good luck_ or _I’m proud of you_.

You start with a written test, taken on a glowing glass desk with a computer screen for a surface, going over rules as old as the society you live in and writing down all two hundred words of the Angelic Oath from memory. This you’re certain you’ll pass flawlessly—you learned the code of the Angels along with the alphabet—and you rattle off protocols and statistics like you were born knowing them. You’re given two hours to complete this portion, and you’re done in one. As soon as you submit the exam, you’re herded into the interview room, where you sit before the Board, which your father is the head of.

That doesn’t mean he’s doing the interview, though. Abraxas is also present, but he doesn’t get to speak either, seeing as he was your mentor for the five years before you left. Other senior members sit at the table as well and you are familiar with most of them, though you haven’t spoken to them since you left. A woman you remember as the head of public relations asks you questions as the others in the room watch silently, calm and emotionless. You explain what you’d do in certain scenarios and tell her about your passion for Angelhood, letting none of said passion leak into your voice and showing no trace of the corner of your mind whispering _liar_ , _LIAR_. When she asks about Pasadena, you have an entire story ready to cover up your life in the Furthest Ring, and you talk about your studies and experiences so convincingly that there’s no way anyone could doubt your words.

Then that’s done and no one gives any indication to how well or badly you did. It’s time for the physical part of the exam.

You’re taken to the hologenerator in the gym where you’ve run simulation after simulation. Abraxas gives you the necessary gear: a movement splicer and your computer glasses. Usually in the field, Angels are given silencers to mask their movements and the scrambler gear in the lining of the uniform hides them from cameras, but since the Board will need to see you perform, you aren’t given either. You almost wish you could apply another fentanyl patch, but your father doesn’t know you’ve been using them and he can’t ever know, plus you’re already doing a double dose, two of the pads pressed onto your skin. Begging your body to hold itself together just for _this_ , please please _please_ , you’re sent into the hologenerator.

The room is entirely black at first. Seconds go by, and you start to think that you have to complete the exam in darkness when the room lights up, and a landscape is projected. It’s a set of streets that vaguely remind you of a section of the Furthest Ring near the Belt, with narrow sidewalks and buildings crammed together. Your computer glasses turn on without your prompting and show a map of the path you’re supposed to take in the right lens, while text scrolling at the bottom of the left says, “Objective: GET THE RIFLE,” in yellow text. A dot in the same shade appears on the map, in the far left corner of the room. Taking a deep breath, you begin running the course.

You know the basic layout, but crops of wall have been adjusted to curve a different path, not a circle but a zigzagging way that takes you near the center of the room before you’re allowed to veer left. You’re doing well so far—your leaps are long, your grip sure, your movements fast and without pain. As you climb walls and swing between passages, you think you’re making great time, and when you finally see the rifle, hung from the ceiling about twenty feet in front of you, the platform you’re standing on collapses.

_—debris falling, walls cracking, bones being crushed, the fucking COATRACK—_

You burst out of your panic just in time to somersault backwards and land on your feet, just behind the collapsed platform. _Goddammit_ , you were supposed leap onto the ladder to your right _immediately_ , but your knees are shaking and you’re breathing heavily. You don’t _have_ a second to calm down, to assure yourself that you’re not really in a falling building, because you just fucked up once and you can’t afford to lose any time. The platform didn’t really collapse, you realize—it was supposed to do that, as the back wall and parts of the side walls had sunk down into the ground, giving the illusion of a buckled building. Huffing, you decide to use it as a ramp to propel yourself up to the ladder you were supposed to grab onto originally, and you jump over a gap in platforms to the rifle.

It’s hanging about ten feet above your head, and you use the wall of the hologenerator for your running start as you propel yourself upwards then leap out, snagging the rifle out of the air and tucking and rolling onto the platform next to the one you were on. This is the first time you have any pain—your right ankle threatens to give out, but you grit your teeth and lock the pain away.

A new objective lights up the map. There’s a red dot moving away from you, and you look over your lenses to see the hologram of someone dressed in all black hopping across platforms just like you had been. The message says, “STOP HER, DO NOT KILL.”

Easy enough. Raising your rifle, you take aim and fire. The bullet goes straight through the hologram’s left knee, and she falls, tumbling off the platform and to the ground, where you can’t see her. It doesn’t take long for you to get to her, taking the route plotted on the map, and you find her on the ground, crawling towards the mouth of the simulated alley. She’s pretty large for a woman, tall and built like a tank, her dirty blond hair nearly matching your color. Though she leaves a trail of pixel blood behind her, she moves with a surprising amount of determination. Your new command is, “INTERROGATE RE: PATROLS.”

Slightly confused by the text, you reach the fake woman and plant a foot on her ribs, kicking her onto her back. You end up staring into the surprised blue eyes of your mother.

“Eridan,” she pants, expression astounded, “baby, what the hell are you doing?”

You open your mouth to speak, but your tongue has turned into a rock, and you try to wet it so you can speak without tripping inelegantly over your words. “What have you really been doing with your ocean patrols?” you demand, voice monotone.

Her expression mostly closes up, but she leaves a small bit of vulnerability, and you know it’s intentional. “What have they been telling you? Are they turning you against me, too?” She reaches up like she wants to touch you, and you know the bit of protocol that tells you to break her hand for that, so you do it, smashing it into the ground with the butt of your gun. She screams, and it sounds so earth-shatteringly like her that you might be sick.

“Did you let anyone in?” you question, keeping her hand pinned to the ground with your rifle. It feels surprisingly solid. “Did you make any deals, take any bribes?”

“I… I didn’t know it was a bribe!” she says, starting to sound afraid. “Eridan, darling, you have to believe me—”

“You had to have known,” you say. “You’re fucking brilliant. What did they give you?”

“I didn’t know!” she repeats, but she has to by lying, because they wouldn’t have put this in the simulation otherwise. Part of interrogation with the Angels often involves taking family members as leverage, as well as reading people deeply enough to see what would bother them most: their own pain, or someone else’s. Some people tend to talk more openly when someone they love is hurt.

This is a test. It’s _all_ part of the test.

You step on her broken hand as you remove the rifle from it. She lets out a strangled gasp at the change in pressure, and she watches as you turn the gun on yourself, nestling it under your chin and laying your finger on the trigger, safety off.

It’s stupidly dangerous; unlike everything else in this simulation besides the walls, the gun is real.

“Baby,” she says softly, astounded, “you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“If you don’t talk now,” you say, voice calm and steady and certain, “I’ll do it, and then you’ll end up giving up your secrets at a later date _exactly_ like you should now, except you’ll have to live with the fact that not talking earlier killed your son.”

You see her swallow, and then she says, “Gareth Makara gave me 20% of the profits so he could smuggle in international drugs.”

“There’s no such thing as international trade,” you say, keeping the gun in place, “not anymore.”

“In the drug world there is,” she says grimly. “Now put that thing down, I’ll come with you quietly.”

The directions on your glasses change to, “INCAPACITATE.” You think she’s already pretty weakened, but your instructions are there for a reason. You shoot her just above the belly, and by the way she falls back down and her legs slump in a way that inconveniently reminds you of Tavros, you hit her spine, just like you’d wanted to.

“You’re just like your father,” she says, sounding heartbroken. Something shifts in her expression, and her voice raises to a yell. “You’re a _monster_! It’s lies, _it’s all fucking lies_! The whole world’s gone _mad_ , this isn’t real. You’re not Eridan Ampora. The session is corrupted. The session is corrupted. _The session is—!”_

When the text on your glasses flashes “EXECUTE,” you do so without hesitation. The hologram doesn’t disappear like you thought it would; the bullet passes through her forehead and comes out the back of her skull, splattering blood and brain matter everywhere. _It’s fake_ , you chant, _it’s fake_ , and you reach out to touch her cheek. The vibrating pressure of the hologram makes you sigh with relief.

Your right lens goes blank momentarily, and a new path shows up on the map. You start on it, scaling a wall and rolling under a box right before it falls on top of you, and the instructions pop back up. “Objective: EVACUATE.”

The lights dim, and you tense, using the strap of the rifle to sling it onto your back after clicking the safety on. You hop from this platform to the next, and when you glance down, you see the room is beginning to fill with water. As you passed over it, you could already feel the steam wafting upwards, and you highly doubt falling into it would be a comfortable experience; this isn’t a hot tub, so it’s probably near-boiling. The water rises as you make your way towards the exit and halfway there, your map goes offline. You snarl in frustration, knowing that it’s not a glasses malfunction, and pull yourself up another wall and use a running start and your splicer to propel yourself across a gap twenty feet wide. You land hard on your feet, pain lancing up each leg so intensely that you nearly fall down, but this is _it_ , it’s the _test_ , you have to keep going. You know the room well enough that you figure out a way to get to the exit door, and by the time you get there, the water is licking at the rim of the platform you’re standing on.

Since the exit door needs to be in a dry area, the walls surrounding it are higher than any of the platforms, and it wasn’t encased like this when you first came in. Darting around the side, you don’t find a ladder, and you have to jump to the platform in front of that side an extra five feet up in order to avoid the water. The hems of your pants get wet, and you reach down to touch them; the water _is_ nearly boiling and you yank your fingers away. From here, the top of the exit is still twenty-five feet up, only about two feet from the ceiling of the room, and they _can’t_ expect you to make that jump, right?

Tick tock, you’re wasting time thinking about this.

Moving back to get a good running start, you sprint towards the wall and leap, then continue running against the vertical surface until the extra momentum provided by the splicer gives out. Your fingers barely wrap around the rim of the container and you almost laugh with relief, pulling yourself over the wall and hanging down on the other side. It’s a long drop downwards—too long for even Angel standards—but there are bars sticking out of the wall that look just sturdy enough to hang from. The closest one to you is about five feet down on the wall opposite you, across six or seven foot gap, and you push off with your feet and launch yourself across, fingers curling around the bar as your side slams into the wall. The bar shakes up and down and you feel like it might break, so you move to the next one quickly, and then the next one. It takes about a minute to descend, and then you’re on dry ground and smacking the button next to the door that shuts down the simulation. The lights turn off completely, the water starts to drain, and the door clicks unlocked. You realize then that you’re panting and shaking, and you take a slow, deep breath, willing your hands into stability and breathing into a normal pattern before you walk outside.

There’s no one waiting for you in the gym, like you thought there would be, and you’re a bit put out by that; you did it! Did no one wait around to receive you? Just when you thought you were done with outside feeds projecting onto your glasses, you get new instructions: PROCEED TO ROOM 533.

Given the numbering scheme, it’s on the fifth floor, so you head for the elevator and make your way down. You don’t remember ever being on this floor before, but you find the room easily enough, and you enter what seems to be a small waiting area, three chairs against one wall and a blank television on the other. A door sits opposite to the entrance, and you have no clue what’s behind it. Your glasses command, “SIT AND WAIT,” so you do.

About twenty minutes later, the mysterious door opens and your father slips in, coming to stand in front of you. You move to stand as well, but he puts a hand on your shoulder, keeping you seated, then removes it quickly. Unable to hold your question back, you ask, “Did I make it?”

He doesn’t answer, and your stomach drops. “I’m here because I thought you’d have some questions about your simulation, before we proceed.”

Swallowing, you say, “Yeah. What the hell was that?”

The slap to the face you receive is unexpected. You know that’s not _nearly_ as hard as he can hit, but it still makes you blink hard. “I am your superior officer,” he says. “You cannot speak to me in that manner.”

You nod once, not meeting his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Now look me in the eye.” You do. “Care to rephrase your question?”

You lick your dry lips. “Did Calisa Ampora really do the things she admitted to in the hologenerator?”

“You say, ‘the things _she_ admitted to’. It wasn’t her; it was a hologram. You know that. The testing office does that sort of thing for everyone,” your father explains, his tone void of sympathy. “That was not your mother and she did none of the things _it_ said she did, but the point was to startle you and make you fulfil your duty, even when pitted against someone you love. You did better than most.” But it wasn’t perfect, you know. His tablet beeps, and he takes it out to read the message, then slips it back into his pocket. “I must go finish preparing. See you soon.”

 _Preparing for what?_ you want to ask, but you hold your tongue. As soon as you dad leaves, your individual scores flash on your glasses: 100% on the written exam, 92% on the interview, 83% on the simulation, and 100% on shadowing. (You’re surprised at the last one; you forgotten that you’d even _get_ a shadowing grade, since you’d apprenticed under Abraxas from when you were twelve to fifteen, almost three years ago. That part of the exam is weighted the most, as it’s real-world experience, so you’re glad you were able to do it while in peak condition.) You gulp, hands curling in your lap as your thoughts scream, _not perfect, not perfect, NOT PERFECT,_ even as the numbers fade to display the word PASS.

Releasing your breath, you blink away tears, thinking about how you can’t seem to stop disappointing people (he wanted perfect, _he raised you for a perfect score_ ), and you realize what your father must be preparing for: your initiation.

What goes on in Angel initiation is kept very, very quiet. You knew about the three parts of the exam and had a basic idea of what to expect during each, but now you’re drawing a blank. You think of gang initiations, where people are given heinous tasks to fulfil like killing a child or causing a self-driving car crash into a group of pedestrians. Then there are church initiations, where words and symbols are cut into their skin as they swear undying loyalty to the Makara’s vengeful God. Those are whispered about, but they’re public knowledge still. You have to think this is going to be something along those lines, but you’re really not sure.

You go back to waiting again, and it’s terrible, scenarios flitting in and out of your head. Your legs start feeling weird, like the numbness is being warped, and when you get up to pace and get your circulation flowing better, you fall unceremoniously onto your face, pain lancing up one leg excruciatingly.

Pulling yourself back into your seat, you hope desperately there are no hidden cameras in here—it’s the initiation waiting room, for Christ’s sake, if there’s any part of the building that’s going to be unwatched it’s these couple of rooms—and press your hand into the fentanyl patches at your spine, willing them to work better. Your bad ankle is throbbing _terribly_ , and you feel the hard plastic brace pressing into your skin so you _know_ your ankle is swelling, so you prop it up on a chair and let it rest.

Someone comes in half an hour later, and you move your foot off the chair just before you enter their field of vision. It’s Abraxas, and he stares at you for a moment—you feel like he didn’t think you could do it now, but you sure showed him—before saying, “Come on, kid.”

You get up carefully, and your ankle smarts but you don’t let yourself limp as you follow him. The room is only a little bit bigger and it looks like it belongs in a dentist’s office, cabinets on one wall with a sink under it and a chair in the middle of the room, looking exactly like the thing you’d sat in when you had your teeth straightened. There’s a pole holding an IV bag that’s full of sopor, plus another sack of clear liquid you can’t identify. A machine on the counter looks like it could be some kind of weird pump, but the only thing you’re completely certain about is that you weren’t expecting something like this at _all_. Your father, Abraxas, the head of PR, and another woman are the only ones in the room, and they’re all standing. The one you don’t recognize gestures for you to sit, and you do, lying back in the chair so you face the ceiling.

She and your father come to stand on either side of you, and she passes him a syringe. You start to sweat—you’re fine with needles by now, but you’re so fucking _confused_ —and the woman takes your arm and rolls up your sleeve to the elbow before wiping down a little area of it with a sponge, prepping the injection site. You dad doesn’t stab you with the needle yet; the woman takes the IV line attached to the clear pack and slides it into your skin, then tapes it down. An extra tube hangs off the side of your wrist, and you presume that’s where the syringe is going to be stuck. You so badly want to question them, demand they tell you what they’re doing, but you can’t fuck this up, not this far in.

Your father takes the smaller tube and with no parting words or glances, he pushes the needle in and presses down on the plunger.

It _burns_ , it burns _horribly_ , setting you on fire from the inside out and making a scream build in your throat. You can’t let it out, though, and you clench your teeth so hard you think they might crack as the scorching feeling spreads across your chest and into your head. _I’m dying_ , you realize slowly as your vision starts to fade, and your head lolls to the side. Closing your eyes, you think desperately, _But I_ passed _, why are you killing me?_

Fef was right. You never should’ve done this.

Just thinking about her makes you feel sick. You’re dying, barely hanging on, and she hates you. You’re sorry, you’re so so _sorry_ , you can’t die with her hating you! That would mean your life was a failure, and all you want right now is for her to hold your head in her lap and whisper reassurances to you. You want to hear that you’re _not_ a broken failure, but it’s too late for that, this is it.

 _I’m sorry,_ you think at her, one last time. _I… I wish I hadn’t done this. I wish I’d known._

Then everything is gone.

 

* * *

 

Gasping, you’re jerked awake. It was a _dream_. It was all a—

“Eridan?”

You open your eyes. You’re back in the initiation room at Angel headquarters. So… it wasn’t a dream?

But you’re unmistakably _alive_.

“You were dead,” your father says tonelessly, “for one minute and twenty-five seconds.” As you just stare at him questioningly, he bows his head. “Welcome. You are an Angel now.”

“And may we always strike righteous and true,” everyone in the room recites.

That was initiation, you realize belatedly. Being killed and coming back from it. How are you not irreparably damaged by whatever chemical they pumped through you? You remember the sopor, and you glance down to see that yeah, the tube connected to the IV pole has turned a light green color. Non-topical sopor is used rarely, as ingesting too much of it has strange effects, but it’s a very strong healing agent. “Stay here until I come back. Don’t move,” your father says, and then they all leave the room.

As soon as they’re gone, you relax all your muscles and slump into the seat. Your left arm still burns terribly, and you see that the blood vessels branching out from the site are an angry, deep red. You feel like a heroin addict. Closing your eyes again, you take a deep breath.

You’re alive, and you weren’t a minute ago.

Once again, Fef pops into your head. Did it really take dying to make you realize you needed to make up with her as soon as possible? Sure, you’d started feeling bad about the fight days ago, but really, the world doesn’t make sense when you aren’t on good terms. It can’t be past 11:00pm, so maybe the gala is still going on. You could meet find her down there, and…

And then what?

Eh, you’ll figure that out later. All you know is you have to see her, because…

Because you need her to tell you you’re not a monster now.

You start thinking about the simulation and where you went wrong, but you can’t consider your miniscule mistakes for long, because it hits you that you killed your mother for a fucking test score. You had to hurt her and threaten her and you didn’t even give it a second thought when you were in the hologenerator, _what the hell is wrong with you?_

This is so fucked up. All of this is so unbelievably fucked up. It took you a lethal injection and a horrid simulation for you to realize how _terrible_ this has been for you in recent months—you’ve been pushed to function like you weren’t nearly crippled a few months ago, even though you’re not even _close_ to being healed, and that was thought of as normal. _You_ thought it was normal! Honestly, you think you would’ve been fine ditching the crutches early if you hadn’t been told to put yourself through so much strain as you tried to make yourself 150% better than you were before. The people here don’t even _like_ you anymore; hell, you don’t even think they like your dad either, and he’s the fuckin’ head of the organization!

 _It had to happen to you,_ you realize. People in the Furthest Ring always whisper about how horrible the Angels are, and you thought they were just intimidated. They’d say how people would show up in the middle of the night and take people away from their families, or even execute _children_ in front of their parents to break them into compliance, and you’d just waved your hand and thought the thumps were overreacting. But now, you’ve been forced to kill an iteration of your mother and they _did_ actually kill you, and you want _out_. It took actually having a horrible thing _done_ to you in order for you to understand that people weren’t overreacting.

But now, you’re in for life.

Your dad returns an hour later, carrying a small case that he doesn’t hand to you just yet. He gestures for you to rise, and as you sit up, you remember something. “Wait,” you realize belatedly, “w-what about the omnichip?”

The tips of your ears go red when your stutter slips. You curse internally as his eyes narrow; you know he noticed, he _had_ to have noticed. His lips thin into a reprimanding shape but he doesn’t mention the extra w, thinking for a moment before saying, “The Board decided to grant you a one year extension on the omnichip’s implantation, seeing as you’ve recently undergone a lot of trauma. You can still function well as an Angel without one.”

Is it weird that you feel relieved? Because you do—you’re practically shaking with it.

He grasps your arm attached to the IV by the wrist and unhooks you from the drip. You start bleeding immediately, and he reaches to the counter to grab a fluffy cotton pad, wiping up the blood and pressing it hard against your skin. There’s no way he’s trying to be gentle. He holds it for a few seconds, then reaches for a roll of bandages, winding them around your arm so all of the deep red marks are covered. Already, the gauze itches, but you don’t comment, instead simply rolling your sleeve back down.

Taking you out into the hall, you both head to the second floor, which you know is reserved for requisitioning equipment and tailoring. He tells you to go put on a formal uniform, pointing towards the universal closet, and you go, finding components that are your size and slipping them on. You look good in the white tailcoat suit and gold vest; all of the light colors make your brown streak stand out even more. Your fingers shake as they knot the white tie, and you have to redo it a few times before it looks suitable. The Angelic symbol is emblazoned on the breast pocket in gold, reminding you and everyone you see of who you work for, and the fabric is flexible and dirt-resistant (you don’t think blood stains it, either), so the suit always stays pristine. Your face looks very flushed compared to the crisp white and golds of the fabric, but you figure it’s just nerves.

 _Welcome to Heaven,_ your reflection whispers, and you have to look at the ground so you aren’t sick.

Your father is still there when you walk back out. “Take _only this_ ,” he emphasizes, handing you the small case. Opening it up, you find a syringe and neat little vials of amber liquid. “The formula was made for this exact situation, and taking any other medication simultaneously could be detrimental to your health.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, slipping it into your coat pocket.

Placing both hands on your shoulders, he sizes you up, looking you over from head to toe. You’re ready to be berated for not getting a perfect score, but a small, sad part of you wants him to say that he’s proud of you. You’re soon disappointed. “Just think about how well you would’ve done if you hadn’t left to go off gallivanting with _gutter filth_ ,” he hisses, looking at your shoes. “ _Never_ make that kind of mistake again, and maybe you’ll turn into someone respectable. Keep on the path you’ve been leading and you’ll end up worse off than Cronus.”

You swallow, once again saying, “Yes, sir,” holding back the rage that hits you like a tidal wave. _Have you not noticed how hard I’ve been trying to make you happy?_ you want to scream. _Do you realize what I gave up to do this?_

But you don’t. You can’t. He says, “Now go _celebrate_ ,” with a bitter tone, and walks out of the room.

Sinking to your knees in despair hurts much more than you thought it would. You collapse onto your side with a pained grunt, staring sideways at the wall. Great, now _three_ areas of your legs are throbbing in time with your heartbeat. Swallowing, you fish the case out of your pocket and give yourself a dose of the weird liquid. It burns, but not as badly as the liquid did earlier, so you suck it up and put the syringe away. His warning to take _only_ that echoes in your head, and with a despondent sigh, you peel the two fentanyl patches off your back, fold them together, and stick them in your pocket to throw away once you’ve exited the building.

It’s time to go find Fef.

As you stand outside, waiting for a taxi, you try pestering her, but you just get the notification: _cuttlefishCuller [CC] has blocked caligulasAquarium [CA]._ That’s nothing new. Sighing, you figure you’ll just show up at Prospit and hope for the best.

The elevators are busier than they usually are at this hour, perhaps because of the demonstration gala. As you move to go inside, someone else comes out at the same time, and you find yourself facing Vriska. She’s clearly coming from some kind of grandiose social event, as she’s in one of her deep blue gowns and lacy elbow-length gloves, and when she sees that it’s you in her way, she stops with a scoff, thrusting her hip out so she can lay her hand on it, her fingers drumming without a proper rhythm. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says, all fake nonchalance.

“You coming from Kankri’s demonstration gala?” you ask, not really wanting to engage but curious enough to ask.

“Yeah,” she says shortly, tossing her long, painstakingly curled hair over her shoulder. “It wasn’t a _total_ bore. You heading down there now, after failing your little exam?”

“I didn’t fail,” you say, gritting your teeth. “If you’d been paying attention to the damn newsfeed, you’d know that I passed.”

She rolls her eyes. “I suppoooooooose I’ll congratulate you, then. Got any juicy details on the test?”

“No,” you snap, curt. “Now get out of my way, I have somewhere to be.”

“Nuh-uh,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with her mechanical arm outstretched. “Not until you give me some info on one of the most carefully-guarded secrets in Canaveral. I think I deserve it, after having to sit through _that_.” She makes an ugly face. It’d be easier to interact her if she looked like that _all_ the time.

“It’s gonna end soon,” you insist, pushing past her. “Tick tock, Vris, I gotta go.”

Then you’re being kicked in the back of the knee and shoved to the ground, a metal hand as hot as an overheating computer closing around your throat after you’re flipped from your stomach to your back. “What the _fuck_ ,” Vriska snarls, craning downward to stick her face into your personal space, getting enraged spittle on your cheeks, “did you just say to me?”

“Vris,” you choke, beating at her arm with the heel of your hand to try to get her to let up, but she doesn’t budge, even when you go for the elbow joint. “V-Vris, what the hell--?”

“‘Tick tock’, Eridan,” she growls, letting go of your throat, and you gasp in air as she raises her arm back like she’s going to slap you. “You’re fucking _with_ him, aren’t you? You’re part of this whole fucking conspiracy to mess with me—”

“It’s just a phrase,” you say, stunned enough to not bring up your ominous notes. “You tried to strangle me over two fucking w-words.”

“No,” she laughs, shaking her head and pushing herself to her feet. She points at your chest, where you’re still lying prone on the ground. “No, I’m not fucking stupid, I _know_ you have something to do with this. Of course you do, you’re a fucking Angel and _so was he_ , and it’s all- all of this _matters_ , and I don’t care how many fucks he has on his side, I _don’t_ do fucking _fetch runs_ for objects that don’t _exist_!”

“He’s not after Fef,” you say just as the thought occurs to you, sounding flabbergasted. “He’s after _you_.”

“You’re just trying to throw me off,” she says, and you feel like she hasn’t been talking to you since she’d also been trying to strangle you, now just rambling to herself instead. “You’re dumb, Ampora, but you’re not ignorant of this. Tick tock,” she repeats, and then she screams it. “TICK FUCKING TOCK! I’m done I’m done _I’m so fucking done_ —I’m ending this. I don’t _care_ how much you want this thing, because I’m taking my life back!”

“You’re crazy,” you deadpan. “You finally fucking snapped. It w-was only a matter of time.”

Vris throw her head back and grins at the nearest security camera. “You’re right, time’s about to be up. But you’re still going to have to wait until I _crush you_!”

She spits on your face as she saunters out, and you make a disgusted noise and wipe it off with your sleeve. It seems you aren’t the only one on the verge of a mental breakdown—Scratch wants Vriska for something, and he set you up as a pawn, making you read a phrase over and over until you had it ingrained in you and blurted it out to exactly the right person. Of course he didn’t want Fef; she’d never even showed up on his radar, because she kept herself clean.

Vriska, though, had made a habit of collecting debts and making people do absurd things to repay them. It seems like her debauchery had finally caught up to her.

You’re honestly too exhausted to properly think about this right now. You head down, every step you take making your ankle hurt worse, and when you try to make the pain vanish, only a little bit of it seeps away. The knee that Vriska kicked is also throbbing steadily, reminding you that it was one of the bits of you that was heavily worked on. Frustrated with yourself, you huff and wipe the sweat off your forehead with your sleeve. You feel almost feverish and you want to sit down, but you need to find Fef first.

Your formal uniform already has all of the devices in place that Angels require. With the flick of a switch, you drop out of everyone’s awareness, becoming a hole people see right through until you either bump into someone or decide to turn your equipment off. This way, you can slink into the party unnoticed.

Prospit seems busy, lit up brightly with cars parked all around it. Two people are leaning against the building outside, dressed in tuxedoes and sharing a cigarette, and you slide past them, heading inside. The area you walk into is a large hallway, extending left and right then curving around the main room in the middle, which you can see through arches placed every few feet, and you walk through one. The area inside looks like a classical ballroom, ceiling domed and covered in a beautiful painting of the sky that fades from day to night, and it’s full of people—hundreds of them, some in button-up shirts and jeans while others are in Burbs finery; it’s not very hard to tell the bucks and thumps apart. You notice how the crowd parts around you, people seeming to move almost unknowingly, as your presence sears into their consciousness, invisible but pressuring. From your vantage point, you don’t see Fef anywhere, but you do spot Latula a few feet to your right and hear Rufioh’s voice somewhere in front of you. You curve to the left to avoid both of them and start searching.

Finally, you see her: you know the long dark brown hair and lithe figure, and it’s like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Her fuchsia gown isn’t something she could’ve gotten down here, and even from the back she looks stunning. You weave through the crowd, careful not to touch anyone or alert them to your presence, and see that she’s conversing with an elderly woman. Heading to the wall closest to her, you wait until no one’s looking near you and turn your silencer off, jumping back into everyone’s perception.

No one bothers you as you wait; the white suit makes you untouchable, even to those who consider you a friend rather than a fiend. You wait until Fef is done conversing before you approach and touch her elbow. “Fef.”

She turns quickly, the slight ruffle at the very bottom of her dress spinning out and shimmering. “Eridan,” she says, surprised. Soon, irritation takes over. “What are you doing here?”

“I know we fought last time w-we saw each other, and I’m sorry,” you tell her quickly, biting your lip and telling yourself to _focus_ after your stutter slips in for a word. “I really am, I’m sorry, I’ll take full responsibility for once in my miserable fucking life. Can w-we. W-we. Can _we_ go outside?”

“Nice stutter,” she says mockingly, examining her nails.

“ _Fef_ ,” you say, and your voice breaks. That was a low blow and she knows it, a flash of guilt showing on her face.

Then as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. “No, we can’t,” she snaps, facing you fully and crossing her arms over her chest. You can tell she’s worried by the crease between her eyebrows, but she’s angry enough at you to hold off for a minute. Looking you up and down, her mouth moves subtly like she’s trying to chew you up and spit you back out, but her shoulders droop a bit as she realizes you look _defeated_. “I can’t just accept your apology, Eridan,” she sighs, dropping her gaze to the ground.

 _If I can get her to look me in the eye again,_ you think, cupping your elbows in your palms and rocking back on your heels, _she’ll come_. Taking a deep breath, you think for a minute, but you’re not able to come up with much in your defense; you were being a complete ass the other day, and honestly, she _shouldn’t_ forgive you.

“Then _don’t_ forgive me,” you say, and her lips purse when your voice cracks again. She glances up at you, and you can tell she already wants to look back at the floor, but she watches you swallow shakily and then she can’t look away. “Just… come in the hall with me, right over there. Please.” There’s probably something in your voice that alerts her to your desperateness, because she just nods, dimming the astonishment in her eyes from your sudden apology, and takes your arm. She leads you through the throngs of people and out into the hallway.

The second you’re stationary, you face her and take both of her hands, looking at the floor between you. “You’re shaking,” she murmurs, and you try a smile for her but it probably just looks like you’re constipated. “Oh, Eridan, it’s okay if you didn’t do it on the first try—”

“No,” you interrupt quietly, “I made it. I…” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Please, just let me hold you for a minute.”

You let go of her hands, and she still looks guarded but she steps into your embrace nonetheless. Her fingers trace the ridge of your spine as you clutch her like she’d melt away otherwise, and you hope you’re not hurting her as you bury your face in her hair. You’re not wearing heels but she is, so for once she’s only a couple of inches shorter than you, so instead of curling on top of her you bend _around_ her as if you can fold her into a pocket dimension you can keep forever.

“It wasn’t like I thought it would be,” you say carefully once you’ve regained some composure, and she pulls back to stare at you.

She sees your bloodshot eyes and the bags under them, notes how your hands haven’t stopped trembling. “What did they do?” she asks like she’s afraid to know the answer.

You don’t get the chance to tell her, because someone calls, “Eridan Ampora?” from behind, and when you blankface and turn, it’s someone you recognize from the dinners you sometimes attended with your father in your younger years. “Oh, it _is_ you,” he affirms, stepping forward and extending his hand. You give it a firm shake and manage to put a lid on your emotions so you won’t embarrass yourself. “Do you remember me? I’m Ignacio Deuce, a friend of your father’s. God, I haven’t seen you since you were this high.” He holds a hand to his waist—which is down pretty low, seeing as he’s damn short—and gives a good-natured chortle. “I just read the feed update about you being accepted into the Angel program, congratulations! You have a fine future ahead of you; your father must be very proud, especially after your brother turned out less than savory.”

“Yes, hopefully I’ll be able to do some good work from now on,” you reply, and you want a fucking medal for how smooth your voice sounds.

“So I assume you’re here to see what this big ‘political movement’ is all about,” he says, and you can hear the dubiousness in his voice. “If you ask me, Mr. _Ampora_ , I honestly don’t think it can be all that bad down here. Hell, signs say they shouldn’t even notice their condition; they don’t have the intelligence for it, Mr. _Ampora_ , I just know they don’t!”

Your eyes narrow a bit, but it goes decently with your smile. You don’t like how he’s saying your name, but you know this game well: he’s trying to draw attention to both himself and you by using the influence that your last name has. Hopefully no one else will approach you before you get out of here. It looks good since only people very close to the arching exits would be able to hear.

Since Fef is probably still mad at you, you need to do something to get back into her good graces. You learned a lot when you were in the Furthest Ring, and you try to remember that when you say, “Well, Mr. Deuce, I think you’d be surprised. Have you spoken to Kankri Vantas yet?”

“No.” He sounds confused. “I don’t think I have, Mr. _Ampora_.”

“You must, you must,” you insist. “He’s…” You peer into the ballroom and search for him. He’s most likely in the center with a throng of people surrounding him, but after scanning the room seems futile, you turn back to him. “I can’t seem to—”

Fef tugs on your elbow, and you turn to her as she nods to the other end of the hallway, where there’s another arch that leads out of the ballroom. Standing there are Kankri and Porrim themselves, staring at you like they’re seeing a dead man. Since you’re about to throw them the human equivalent of a mocking seagull, without even saying hello, you shoot them an apologetic look.

“He’s right over there, in the red sweater. Go talk to him and feel free to tell him I sent you, but you must hear him speak. He has a very compelling way with words. It was very nice seeing you again, Mr. Deuce.”

“And you, Mr. _Ampora_ , and you,” he says, being sure to shake your hand again. This time, yours is trembling, but you don’t think it’s enough for him to take notice. “Be sure to tell your _father_ I send my well wishes.”

“I will,” you promise him, even though you know you’ll do no such thing. “Have a good night, and keep an open mind.”

Turning on your heel, you stalk down the hallway, barely aware of Fef following you. “Telling that man to have an open mind wasn’t like you,” she notes under her breath.

You ignore that quip, rounding the corner and moving out of sight. Absentmindedly, you pick at the bandage that’s barely under your shirtsleeve as you continue walking. You kind of want to stop that now, but you can’t exactly sit on the floor just outside of a ballroom with hundreds of people in it. You end up finding a corridor out of the way, near the kitchen. “Can you leave?”

Hesitant, she replies, “I’d rather not, but—”

“They killed me.”

You’re glad you ended up in a deserted hallway, because she stops in the middle of it, staring at you with dawning horror. “They _what_?”

Gulping, you roll up your sleeve and show her the clean white bandage wrapped around your wrist where the IV was. “They strapped me down to a table and injected me with something lethal and I, of course, died, so then they pumped it all out, mixed in some sopor, and restarted my heart.” You swallow again, but this time the lump in your throat doesn’t go away.

Oh, this wasn’t the kind of lump you were expecting. You dash to the side a few steps and throw up in a fake plant.

Once the heaving is done with, you can feel Fef trying to steady your back with a hand. “I know why they’re called ‘Angels’ now,” you comment, sounding tired and ill.

“How were they allowed to… What else?” she changes her question abruptly. “What else did they do?”

Snorting bitterly, you say, “Was killing me not enough?”

“I know you,” Fef states, staring you straight in the face. “Yes, if that was all, you’d be considerably shaken, but not like this.”

Silence stretches on, since Fef is waiting for you to collapse and tell her, but you’re not going to do that. “Please come home with me,” you beg her. “I need you more than they do right now.”

She purses her lips, thinking when the answer _should_ be immediate. “Alright,” she agrees, “I’ll come with you.”

You almost cry, right then and there. She takes your hand and leads you through the building, stopping only when you rip away from her in order to tear off the top of a waste bin so it can be puked in; you’re still surprised that there’s stuff left in your stomach after that first retch. When you make it outside, the air is misty and cool, signaling the upcoming fall even though the temperature rarely drops like this when it’s only late October. You shiver and pull your suit jacket more tightly around your shoulders, and Fef’s arm wraps around your waist. Gratefulness swells in your chest, and you lean a little bit on her, taking some weight off your throbbing ankle. “Come on, honey, it’ll be easier once we get to the elevators—”

“No,” you say, “no, I don’t want to go back yet. Can we go to the apartment?”

She diverts your path easily, taking you down a side street and to a bus stop. “Yeah, and if you’re feeling up to it tomorrow, we can go visit the Maryams and Vantases, how’s that?”

“Sounds nice,” you say with no real emotion tied to it. Fef helps lower you into the seat, and you curl into her shoulder for the twenty minutes you have to wait. If you’re cold, she must be _freezing_ in just a sleeveless dress, even if it’s made from the cold resistant fabrics in the Burbs. You press closer to her and wrap your arm around her, rubbing your hand slowly up and down her arm. You hope it helps. It seems like she doesn’t think you’re well enough to grill you on the details just yet, so she simply presses her cheek into your hair and reaches around your back to slip her hand in your pocket.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t be getting you to a hospital?” she asks softly. “Or back to your father?”

You make a negative sound in the back of your throat. “I’ve got meds in my pocket. I’ll take another dose when I get home.”

“Okay, Eriglub.” It’s an old nickname from when you were both very young—one she hasn’t used in a long time. It makes you feel safe. She kisses the top of your head and resumes the silence.

You’re glad that her anger seems to have simmered down. You can hardly remember what you were fighting about, but you can tell she’s also thinking about your blowout, because she mumbles, “You didn’t keep up your end of the bet.”

“What?” you say, brow wrinkling.

“The bet we made, when we first came down here,” she clarifies. “You were supposed to wait until you were eighteen to take the Angel exam, because you lost. You took it anyway.”

You won’t be reaching eighteen until January, but that’s only a few months away. “I almost made it. Is… that why you were mad?”

“No,” she sighs, running a hand through her hair. “It was a stupid bet, even if our lives changed so much because of it. I don’t really care that much that you broke the bet, but I. I just wish you’d waited.”

Breathing out through your nose, you wish you’d waited, too.

The bus finally comes, right on schedule, and Fef scans her pass twice, leading you to a seat at the front. There are only two other people present and they’re both near the back, so it’s easy enough to ignore them. Even though you’ve stretched your ankle out to avoid putting much weight on it, it’s drumming up a dull throb, and you try to push away the pain, gazing out the window and ignoring it. Since it hasn’t really worked yet, you don’t expect it to this time either, and it doesn’t.

You’re back at the apartment by one in the morning, and when you step off the bus, tiredness crashes over you like a tsunami, pressing down on your shoulders and eyelids. It’s hard to walk on your ankle and your knees feel swollen, which is restricting your gait, but you can manage it, mostly because Fef is holding onto you, sharing the burden of walking. Pathetically, you wish you had a pair of crutches with you.

When you get to the stairs, you gulp. There are three stories between you and Fef’s apartment, and you know you’ll make it, but it won’t be fun. When you’d visited her the other day, you’d had your braces for support and you still leaned heavily on the railing on the way up, and didn’t even attempt to descend normally: you’d sat on the railing and slid slowly, pausing at each landing and only falling once, scraping your hands and knees on the sidewalk when you hit the bottom of the staircase. You’d gone home, slapped on some nanogenerative pads, and when you woke up the following morning, your small hurts had vanished.

Then you abused your body today, convincing it that it was fine and not still fucked up from being crushed and punctured by concrete and coatracks. It’s caught up to you, and if you could talk out of your toes, each one of them would be screaming from the pain you’re putting yourself through. Sure, you ache all over and your arm is sore from the IV and its acerbic fluid, but your long day without the braces was _hard_. Swallowing your pride, you look at the ground to avoid Fef’s inquisitive stare. “Um… do you think you could, maybe… help me with the stairs?”

God, you sound like Tavros. Gross.

She nudges you to the right, so you can grasp the railing. The metal is flaking, and you know there’ll be rust stains all over your hands when you’re through. “What’s wrong?” she asks, wrapping an arm around your waist for support. In return, you shift so your weight is evenly distributed on the railing and her.

“My legs are kind of screaming ‘fuck you’; it’s one of my ankles that’s giving me most of the trouble, so as long as I keep some weight off it, I’ll be alright,” you say, throwing her what’s supposed to be a reassuring smile. In reality, it’s shakier than the rickety washing machines in the laundromat down the street. “I may need to lean on you, though.”

“Whatever you need,” she reassures you, and then you begin the ascent.

It doesn’t take that much longer than usual to get to your floor. You grit your teeth the entire way up, but between the railing and Fef, you can walk at a decent pace. When you get off the stairs, she doesn’t let you go, and you lean on her until you reach the door and she needs to dig in her purse to get out the key.

“Do you want me to get you ice?” she asks once you’re inside, and you completely disentangle yourself from her, putting a hand on the wall for support so you can catch your breath. “For your ankle, I mean.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say, even though it hasn’t stopped hurting. “I’m gonna go the bathroom.”

You walk down the hallway, not allowing yourself to limp like your body is trying to make you. The bathroom is exactly how you remember it, except all of your hair products have vanished, probably discarded by the landlord when a cleaning crew went through the apartment during Fef’s two month absence. You take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror, and you see the sweat gathered at your temples, the paleness of your face, the dark bags under your eyes. Your lips are chapped and your hair is wild; it looks like you just broke out of solitary confinement. No wonder Fef forgot her anger quickly and was so patient with you. You’re visibly a wreck.

Reaching into your pocket, you bring out the small plastic case containing your medication and open it up, revealing the syringe and the container of amber liquid. You probably shouldn’t take your second dose again so soon, but you feel too terrible _not_ to. You uncork the bottle and dip the needle in, sucking up medicine until it hits the thick black line about three inches from the base of the syringe. You’ve become intimately familiar with needles over the past few months, so you’re unperturbed when you shove up your sleeve in the arm opposite of your IV bandaging, find a vein in your wrist, stick the needle in, and push the plunger.

The fluid burns as it leaks into your system, and you exhale harshly through your nose as you remove the needle and immediately turn to the sink, washing it out before placing everything back in the case. Reaching to your right, you grab some toilet paper and place it over the small spot of blood, applying enough pressure to make you nauseated. Your forehead starts pulsing with the worst of headaches, and you sit down on the rim of the bathtub, breathing loudly through your mouth.

Glass shatters in the kitchen, and suddenly you rocket to your feet, senses on high alert as you take a step forward. The pain in your ankle flares, and you go to lock it away—

 

* * *

 

There’s something cool and damp on your face, wiping under your nose and around your mouth. The floor under you (why is the floor _under_ you, you were standing less than a second ago) is hard linoleum, and it’s sticking to your skin because for some strange reason, you’re sweaty and gross. Clenching and unclenching your jaw, you force your eyes open, and find Feferi crouching down in front of you mopping at your face with a washcloth, traces of crimson visible on the fabric. As soon as that registers, your head starts throbbing, particularly near your hairline on the right side of your forehead.

“Hi, dearest,” she says, reaching over with her free hand and running her fingers through your hair. Flipping her washcloth to the dry side, she dabs at your face to rid it of moisture before putting it down. “You feel okay?”

You have to swallow twice before you can speak. “I feel… kinda dizzy,” you admit, blinking slowly. “Disoriented. What happened?”

“I heard you fall,” she explains, still combing her fingers across your scalp. The slight drag of her fingernails on your skin feels amazing. “You left the door open, which was good, because if you’d closed it you probably would’ve blocked it with your body. You hit your head on the floor riiiight here,” she runs a thumb over the aching portion of your head, and you can tell it’s slightly raised. “You’re gonna have quite the knot on your head, silly boy. I noticed there was blood coming out of your nose, so I got a cloth and started mopping it up after flipping you onto your back.” Her hand moves out of your hair to cup your cheek, and without thinking you nuzzle into it. “And now you’re awake, that’s good.”

“How long?” you croak.

“It’s been about half a minute since I got the washcloth,” she says, rubbing your cheekbone with her thumb. She gulps shakily, and you detect the slight tremor of her hand. It confuses you for a second, until you realize she’s _afraid_. For you.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, and go to sit up. Her hand leaves your face to support your back, and without her help, you wouldn’t have been able to get into an upright position. She keeps her arm around you, worried expression on her face, until you suddenly lunge to the side and retch into the bathtub. Only stomach acid comes up, because you threw everything else up earlier at the gala, and she massages your shoulders as you gag and gasp for breath. When the wave of nausea is gone, you plop down hard, panting and pawing at the tears on your cheeks. Retching _sucks_ and it always makes your eyes water. Your head absolutely _pounds_ , and you press the heels of your hands to your forehead, like you can magically make the pain disappear.

Since that obviously doesn’t work, you carefully try to lock it up the way you were taught, finding the box and pouring your hurts into it. You find that getting it in there is much easier than it was earlier, but when you try to shove it away, nothing happens. It won’t leave you alone.

You can’t hold back a distressed hiccup. Out of the corner of your eye, Fef cracks a tiny, genuine smile, and you hiccup again. “I’ll get you some water,” she says, squeezing your shoulder before getting up and heading into the kitchen.

The only time you ever really get hiccups is after you’re done crying. Since you haven’t cried since leaving the Furthest Ring, it’s been a while since you’ve had them. Each one makes the pain in your head spike, and when Feferi comes back, you ask her, “Can you turn off the light? It’s too bright.”

She flicks off the switch, and the bathroom is illuminated by light in the hallway. When she presses the glass into your trembling hands, you remember something from earlier. “What shattered?”

“Hmm?”

“Right before I passed out, I heard something break in the kitchen.”

“Oh.” She squeezes your knee and makes a motion with her chin, encouraging you to drink. You bring the glass to your lips, taking a few small sips, some water leaking down your chin. Fef continues, “I dropped a cup and it broke. I’ll clean it up when you’re situated. Wanna try to move to the couch? It’s closer than the bed.”

“Okay,” you say, holding back the urge to tell her not to patronize you. Finishing your water, you hand her the cup and she sets it on the counter.

You clench your teeth, exhaling through your nose as you try to figure out how to go about this. Fef doesn’t wait for you to ask, crouching beside you and winding an arm around your waist to help pull you up. Bracing your hand on the sink, you push, and you manage to get upright, swaying slightly as your vision turns into static for a moment. Blinking it away, you try to put weight on your bad leg (well, they’re technically _both_ your bad legs, but you’re talking about the one that’s hurting more right _now_ ) and find that, while it hurts like hell, you can make it bear a little bit of your weight.

With Fef’s help, you limp to the couch, keeping a hand on the wall and an arm around her shoulders for support. Once you’ve sat down, Fef stands in front of you, hands on her hips. “I’m going to ask one more time,” she sighs. “Are you _sure_ you shouldn’t go to the hospital?”

“I’m sure,” you say, one hand reaching up to curiously prod the knot on your head. You’re not surprised when all you do is flinch. “This happened before initiation too, so it’s probably normal.”

“You’ve fainted before?” she asks, leaning forward.

You nod, and it makes a jolt of pain go through your head. “During training. It happened when I landed or stepped weirdly. The pain flared, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground with blood all over my face. I could get up fine and everything after, so I didn’t think much of it. Happened a couple of times.”

She presses the heels of her hands to her eyes in frustration, hissing a breath through her teeth. “And you didn’t think that was _weird_?”

“I didn’t think I should make a big deal out of it.” You shrug slightly, drumming your fingers on your knee. Your two prosthetic ones nearly punch holes through your pants. “I’m okay.”

“You’re _not_ , though,” she says, and her voice breaks. For some reason, that makes you feel like the biggest fucking asshole on the planet. She takes a few deep breaths before speaking again. “When Kankri comes back from the gala, I’m going to take you up there so he can look at you. This isn’t alright, Eridan.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, but even to you it sounds hollow.

Fef reaches out, and your first thought is she’s going to slap you in slow motion (which would be pretty damn weird, almost as weird as blacking out and getting nosebleeds) but all she does is cup your cheek, running a thumb across your cheekbone. You’ve always liked your cheekbones—they’re fine and high, with a sparse dusting of freckles over them that you can only see if you’re right up next to the mirror—and you didn’t realize how lovely it felt for someone to touch them until Fef tried it. You lean into her touch, closing your eyes almost automatically, and you feel her kiss the crown of your head.

Then just like that, she steps back, dropping her hand. You shouldn’t feel touch starved already, but you do. “Take a nap, if you can,” she directs, heading back to the bedroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower. The gala is supposed to end in about fifteen minutes, but it could be another hour or two before they make their way home.”

“‘Kay,” you say, moving each of your legs onto the couch. You almost take her up on her earlier offer for ice, but instead you just prop your ankle up on a pillow without even removing your boots; you do remove your jacket though, draping it on the back of the couch and leaving you in a thin white dress shirt and gold vest. You close your eyes.

One thing you forgot about Fef is that she sings in the shower. You did too, here: she’d always tease that your voice was a bit flat, but you won’t soon forget the first time you’d ever belted out a tune and she’d opened the door to the bathroom _while you were still in the shower_ and exclaimed, “Holy crap, you can _sing_! I never knew!” Now, she’s singing something from some old movie you used to watch all the time as kids, and she sounds like a tone-deaf harpy. You love Fef. You really do. But she can’t carry a tune for shit.

For some reason though, it’s still comforting because it lets you know for sure that she’s _there_. Her voice sounds far enough away that it’s as quiet as a lullaby, and even though you haven’t had a really good night of sleep since you were in a fuckin’ coma, you find yourself drifting off soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In about a week, I go back to college! Now, what does this mean for you this time? Hopefully, it won't mean anything! I have two chapters queued up and (almost) ready to go, so there will DEFINITELY be updates in September and October. However, I have chunks of 20, 21, and 22 written, but I have not completed the chapters. Seeing as I have a December Plan (which is to drop the finale during the first week of December and do the two-part intermission during Winter Break), I'd need to speed up on the update schedule a liiiiittle bit, so I'm done with the four chapters before then. That means you might get a better update schedule (once every three weeks-ish instead of once a month), but we'll see if I can handle that, seeing as I'm taking some hard classes this semester.


	19. XVIII- 14 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for another long one!

Eridan is sleeping on the couch when you hear movement upstairs, signaling that Kankri should be home. You nudge him awake and give him a minute or two to collect himself before you wrap your arm around his waist, pull his arm across your shoulders, and lift him up. Apparently, his short nap sapped him of energy rather than giving him some, and he leans even more heavily on you than he had before as he limps toward the door. Getting up the stairs is a harder affair than it was half an hour ago, as he goes slowly, one step at a time, trying to drag himself up by pressing down heavily on the rusty railing. You have half a mind to just pick him up and get it over with, but when you move to try you almost dump him onto the creaky metal, so you figure you shouldn’t try to shift him so much. He’s little more than a ragdoll right now.

You’re raising your free fist to knock on their apartment door when Eridan suddenly says, “Stop!”

Surprised, you freeze. “What’s wrong?” you question.

“I—I don’t…” He hunches down further, if possible. In a small voice, he says, “I don’t w-want them to see me like this.” Sighing, you move to kiss his temple. Uncomforted, he continues, “I’m supposed to be _better_. I… They’re used to seein’ me snark and leer and w- _walk_ fuckin’ reliably, and… and I don’t w-want them to think that I’m…”

It seems he doesn’t really get a choice in the matter at this point, because the front door opens. Porrim is standing in the threshold, and when she sees Eridan, her brows knit together in concern. “You’re a fucking wreck, kid,” she says bluntly.

Without being asked, she moves to the other side of Eridan, looping his other arm around her shoulders. “Hey, Por,” he greets weakly, pretending not to hear Porrim’s assessment of him. “Long time no see.”

“I just saw you at the gala looking like death warmed over,” she says, closing the door behind you as the pair of you drag Eridan to the couch. “I didn’t think you could look worse than you did then, but boy was I wrong.”

She helps you settle Eridan down on the couch, lying him down and stuffing a pillow under his head. “Kanaya and Karkat already went to bed. They were exhausted,” Porrim says, sitting down on the armrest north of his body. You’re sure that she and Kankri are ridiculously tired too, and you feel bad for keeping them awake, but Eridan needs this. “Kankri is in the shower; he’ll be out soon. I take it you came up here for him to take a look at you?”

“Yeah,” Eridan responds, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it look less disheveled. “ _I_ think I just need a good night of sleep, but Fef is worried.”

Porrim turns to look at you, her expression asking, _Is he for fucking real?_ You shrug helplessly. She sighs, playfully shoving his shoulder and saying, “Good thing she’s looking after you, then, because you would have probably killed yourself at this point if she hadn’t been.” She flicks his temple. “‘Good night of sleep’ my ass. In a hospital bed, maybe.”

“I’m not going to the fucking hospital,” he says, carefully enunciating each word as if she wouldn’t understand otherwise.

“Kankri’s going to be the one who makes that call,” you say before Porrim can answer. “If you think sleep is so good, try to take another quick nap.” Grasping Porrim’s arm, you pull her into the kitchen.

“Okay, what the fuck is up with him?” she asks in a hushed tone so he can’t hear.

“The Angel examination and initiation,” you answer just as quietly. “It was very taxing on his body, especially since he still wasn’t completely recovered from nearly being crushed. I think he’s still supposed to be using full-leg braces, but he’s not, and he’s been taking more pain meds than he should be. His dad gave him some stuff after the initiation and told him to _only_ take that, because it was supposed to help in the aftermath, but it doesn’t really seem to be doing anything at all.”

“ _Fuck_ , I need a smoke,” Porrim says, running a hand through her hair.

Surprised, you ask, “You smoke?”

“I quit a decade ago,” she says, “but it’d sure as hell be nice to have one now.”

You pat her arm reassuringly. “I’m sorry we got you involved in this. I know seeing him like this is stressful—”

“No, don’t apologize,” she interrupts. “I’d do almost anything for that fucking brat. I just wish he didn’t look so terrible the first time I saw him in four months.”

Has it really been four months? You don’t know if that feels like an exaggeration or an underestimation; it feels like you left Meenah’s place years ago, but pulled Eridan out of the rubble yesterday. You do the math and find that yeah, it’s been almost exactly four months. Swallowing, you don’t really know what to say, so you just reach forward and hug her tightly. It takes a moment, but she returns the embrace, and you stay like that for a minute until you hear the shower turn off and she breaks it. “I’m gonna get him a glass of water,” she says, walking over to the refrigerator. “Go sit with him.”

You move to the end of the couch. As carefully as you can, you slide the pillow out from under him, supporting his head with your hand, and painstakingly maneuver yourself so his head is resting on your lap. Your lips purse in worry as he doesn’t stir—he always reacts to movement when he’s asleep—and you card you fingers through his hair, brushing back from his widow’s peak to the crown of his head. Porrim comes in and sets the water down on the coffee table for when he wakes up, then goes to talk to Kankri.

About ten minutes later, Porrim returns, Kankri following after her with wet hair, wrinkled clothes, and his medical bag. He fiddles with a program on his tablet as Porrim comes over, crouching down with her hand hovering in front of her like she wants to touch him but doesn’t know if she should. “Is he sleeping?” she asks quietly.

“I think so,” you answer, hoping it feels nice for your nails to drag lightly along his scalp.

“He passed his Angel examination,” Kankri says. It wasn’t a question, but you nod anyway. Sighing, Porrim flicks Eridan’s nose as Kankri frowns. “After watching him at the gala I could still tell he was still rather messed up, so I don’t understand how that could conceivably happen.”

As he speaks, Eridan’s head turns towards your stomach. Without opening his eyes, he mutters, “Nepotism, probably.”

Porrim’s mouth forms a thin, displeased line. “Okay, I’m done trying to coddle you. Where the fuck have you been, Ampora?”

“Dying,” he replies faintly, scratching at the bandage on one of his arms. “I’ve been dying.”

“I see you’re just as melodramatic as always,” Porrim teases as Kankri puts down his tablet and takes a small, nearly flat square out of a plastic case that was in his bag.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asks Eridan.

“Around six,” he replies.

Without asking, Kankri takes one of Eridan’s hands, tells his to relax, and then places the edge of the box on one of his fingertips. There’s a small popping noise and Eridan flinches. When Kankri pulls his hand back, there’s a bead of blood welling on Eridan’s fingertip. “Don’t wipe that off,” Kankri says as he pulls a tiny, thin glass tube out of the same plastic case. He places it over the pinprick and firmly squeezes either side of Eridan’s finger.

As blood begins to fill the tube, Eridan protests, “Ow, _ow_!” You start running your fingers through his hair again.

“I cannot _believe_ ,” Kankri sighs, “you are complaining about a fingerprick while you are in your current state.” He removes the tiny tube once there’s about an inch and a half of blood in it, then he caps it and goes digging for something in his bag again. The second Eridan is free, he sticks his finger in his mouth, then wipes it on his pants just as Kankri hands you a band-aid. You tear off the thin paper surrounding it and take his hand, pressing it onto the area, where blood has already begun to bead again. He cringes when you push down to make sure it’s secure.

Shifting his head, he cranes his neck to look up at you. Smiling slightly, you guide his hand up to your lips and kiss the bandage. “All better!” you report.

“Oh, shush,” he says, the tips of his ears turning red. He tries to make himself sit up, and you help him out. When he’s sitting properly, he scoots over so he’s pressed up against you, and you pat his knee reassuringly.

Kankri opens an app on his tablet and enables Bluetooth before taking out a needle attached to a small box with a blinking light at the end. He sticks the needle through the cap on the vial of Eridan’s blood and the light stops blinking, staying solidly on. Kankri lies both items down on the coffee table, then says, “While my tablet is analyzing your blood, let’s start the physical examination,” rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What hurts the most?”

“My right ankle,” Eridan says, grabbing his calf and lifting it onto the coffee table, careful not to kick the tablet. He reaches for his shoe but Kankri knocks his hands out of the way and unlaces his boot for him before carefully tugging it off. His ankle is pretty swollen and is pressing up against a brace that would match the color of his skin if it weren’t such a bloated red. It wraps around his lower leg and reaches around under his foot, keeping it at a ninety degree angle. Kankri knocks on it and it sounds like hard plastic.

He makes an inquisitive noise before vocalizing, “Porrim, could you grab some ice?” Directing his attention back at Eridan, he says, “This looks like a foot drop brace.”

Shrugging slightly, Eridan lays his head on your shoulder, even though he has to crane his neck to do so. “I don’t know what it is exactly,” he admits. “When I first took off my full leg braces, that foot started doing this,” he lifts up his hand, fingers pointing toward the ceiling, then relaxes his wrist so his hand just flops so it’s parallel to the ground, “and when I showed my dad, he just put in a request to change my physical therapy a bit and got me this new brace for when I couldn’t wear the full ones.”

“I didn’t think you were allowed to use anything like braces during the Angel exam,” you say, eyebrows drawing together.

“You’re not,” he says sheepishly. “We kind of cheated, but just on that. Everything else was completely legitimate.”

Sighing, Kankri starts undoing the brace. Eridan shifts awkwardly as he does, like it hurts him but he doesn’t want to say so, and you move your hand from his head to take his hand. It’s shaking slightly, but he still squeezes back, glad for the reassurance. There are lines cut into his skin from how tightly the brace was attached; it must be a relief to finally have it off. His foot moves from having his toes pointed towards the ceiling to listing to the side.

Once the brace is lying on the table next to his leg, Kankri requests, “Try moving your foot up and down.”

He does, but it sort of just flops awkwardly, hardly moving in either direction. Kankri picks up Eridan’s leg, supporting it behind the knee, and watches as his foot hangs in the air, toes pointing to the floor. “Try again.”

“Do I _have_ to?” he whines. “It fuckin’ _hurts_ and we already know it’s not gonna work.”

“Humor me.”

Sighing harshly, he moves his foot again. It wiggles slightly from side-to-side, and to you it looks like a worse result than last time.

“Yes, this is rather textbook foot drop.” Kankri lays Eridan’s leg back down as Porrim comes back with a plastic bag with some ice in it. After handing it off to him, Porrim goes to stand behind Eridan and the couch. Kankri puts it on the outside of his ankle, nestled on top of the swooping surgery scar that still starkly shows on his skin. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

The question is directed at Eridan and he shakes his head, but you answer, “It’s nerve damage, right?”

Kankri nods, and Eridan pales. “This could only be the beginning of it. We’ll need to run tests we can’t do here to confirm the foot drop, and hopefully they’ll show that’s the only kind of nerve damage he has. The bloodwork should be done by now, so let’s check on that, then do some x-rays and see how the bones have healed.”

Eridan’s hand is still shaking in yours, and you run your thumb over his knuckles, back and forth in a steady rhythm that you hope is comforting. As Kankri picks up his tablet and disconnects it from the blood vial, he seems taken aback. Eyebrows shooting up, he says, “Your potassium levels are _very_ high. Why on _Earth_ would he..?” That last bit seemed to be directed at himself.

“I had a lethal injection earlier,” Eridan says, calm as can be. “That’s probably why.”

Kankri’s head jerks up, no longer focused on his tablet, but Porrim beats him to the incredulous, “ _What?”_

You feel him shrug slightly. “I’m really not supposed to tell civilians about Angel initiation, but I’m going to anyway. They kill you and bring you back. It’s not part of the test, but it might as well be, since if you don’t come back after they inject you, the only angel you could ever be is a dead one.”

“ _Why would you let them kill you?”_ Kankri demands. “Hell, why would your _father_ let them kill you? Doesn’t he run the whole goddamn operation?”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Eridan says, still nonchalant despite how shaken he’d been when he told you earlier, “my dad is the one who gave me the shot. He wouldn’t have given it to me if he thought I wouldn’t wake up again.”

“That still doesn’t clear up why you let them kill you in the first place,” Kankri snaps, refusing to look anyone in the eye as he types away on his tablet.

As Eridan explains more, Kankri starts digging in his bag again. “I’d already passed the exam. You don’t exactly get to say, ‘No thanks,’ at that point. You don’t just _leave_ the Angels, you either get killed in the line of duty or retire after at least forty years of service.” Frowning, he says, “Not a lot of people make it to retirement. Anyway, if I’d told them I wouldn’t do it, they just would’ve put a bullet in my head. At least I didn’t have the brain surgery that was supposed to be part of the deal.”

“The omnichip,” you breathe. “I completely forgot. They didn’t give it to you?”

Eridan shakes his head. “They denied it on the grounds that my health was still shaky enough that they didn’t want to make the investment yet. That’s honestly the no-turning-back point, but they still probably would’ve executed me if I’d refused to just take the needle and then get resurrected.”

Kankri expels his breath harshly, finally pulling a thing that looks like a handheld metal detector out of his bag. “Your poor life choices are starting to piss me off.”

“If I _hadn’t_ made the choice I did,” Eridan says, a snarl pulling his lips down, “I’d be fucking _dead_.”

“Or,” Kankri says, “you could’ve done the _sane_ thing and decided not to join the Angels in the first place.”

Eridan huffs. “You don’t understand. You could _never_ understand what it’s like, being a fuckin’ Ampora.”

“Oh I _do_ understand.” Kankri’s stopped fiddling with his stuff, but he doesn’t move to start another procedure. Usually, he gets angry in bursts—or at least that’s how you’ve seen him get mad—but this is simmering and building. You wonder if he’s going to blow soon. “I went to the University in the Burbs for _four years_ before I decided I had enough. I was _three semesters_ _away_ from being the first person in the Furthest Ring to get a doctoral degree from there, and I wanted it _so much_. If I can drop _that_ , YOU could’ve left the Angels before you were in for life.”

“ _Come on,_ Kank, those two things are completely different! My family _started_ the Angels, and my brother dropped out so really, I couldn’t leave; _someone_ from my generation had to stick it out, and my aunt died before she could have kids!” He crosses his arms over his chest in a way that he probably thinks looks defiant, but to you, it just looks petulant. “ _I_ was born into this; you never belonged there.”

“ _Eridan!”_ you bite, disgusted with him.

For some reason, Kankri doesn’t let himself get any angrier. He takes a few deep breaths, looking up at the ceiling like it has all the answers, and his voice is steady when he says, “I will excuse that comment, because you are obviously agitated and in a lot of pain, and I will give you the benefit of the doubt and say you really didn’t mean it.” He starts tapping away at his tablet again, and you glance over at Eridan to see that Porrim is digging her nails into his shoulder. Neither of them make a sound before Kankri asks, “Now, if you’d like to let a dumb thump like me help you out, would you mind telling me your initial injuries?”

Eridan has the sense to look ashamed. “Kankri, I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you see Porrim’s grip let up. “I really am.” He looks like he’s about to cry, but he breathes in, holds it, then breathes out, and his voice is steady again. “Look, a lot of the doctors up there just want to make money. I honestly trust you more than any of them.”

“Fine,” Kankri says, voice neutral. You can still tell he’s upset, though, and you don’t want to let Eridan get away with making that kind of comment. “I’ll reiterate: please tell me your initial injuries.”

Sighing, Eridan starts pointing out places where his legs were fractured and guessing where he has metal rods and pins holding everything together. Once he’s done explaining the breaks in his femurs and long leg bones, he says, “I’m pretty sure this kneecap,” he pokes his right knee, the one with a surgical scar across it, “is 3D printed, as well as some of the small bones in my bad ankle, the um…”

“It was just the talus,” you supply. “Your medial malleolus broke off from the rest of your tibia and they pinned it back.”

“God, you’re brilliant,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Should’ve stayed on the med school track, Fef.” You ignore the compliment because of what he said to Kankri.

Sometimes, you regret that you’d given up your schoolfeeding after you left the Burbs and didn’t try to pursue a degree—instead of going into pure genetics like your mother and sister, you were hoping to get away with studying medicine to become a surgeon or general practitioner. You gave that up when you came down here, but maybe one day when you had the time to do the online university they have in the Furthest Ring, you could give the medical field another try; for now, though, you’re content with your diving and minor political aspirations.

Nodding, Kankri sets his tablet down and holds on tight to the metal detector thing, which you’ve now figured out is a portable x-ray machine. “Did you break anything in the chest, arms, and head area?”

“Well, nothing that’s bothering me now, but I had some cracked ribs and hairline fractures in my shoulder and lower back vertebrae that were all healed by the time I got out of the recuperacoon, plus a coatrack pierced through my abdomen,” he says. “It’s only my legs that _stayed_ fucked up.”

“Let’s see how they’re healing, then,” he says, flicking a switch on the x-ray wand. Eridan lifts his other leg onto the coffee table as Kankri fiddles with his tablet again, then waves the wand over his legs, clicking a button on the side with his thumb every few seconds. He gets shots from all angles, carefully rotating his legs when necessary, then sets both his tablet and the wand back down on the table when he’s done. “I need some instant coffee, I’ll be back. They should be done loading in about five minutes,” he says, heading into the kitchen.

“Feeling any better?” you ask Eridan quietly, squeezing his hand.

“No,” he admits, letting his eyes close and taking a deep breath. “God, what the hell _is_ that shit my dad gave to me? It doesn’t seem to be doing anything at all.”

You make a sympathetic noise and run your thumb over his knuckles. You sit in silence for a few minutes until Kankri comes back, also handing a cup of coffee to Porrim. She accepts it gratefully, taking a few large gulps. Kankri chugs his, then sets the mug down on the table. “Why do you think your symptoms are flaring up all of the sudden?” he asks.

Shrugging, Eridan answers, “It’s a lot of things, probably. This is the first complete day that I’ve been out of full-leg braces, the Angel exam was tiring, and I stopped taking my regular pain meds suddenly, and exchanged it for this stuff.” He digs in his pants pocket and come out with the case, handing it over to Kankri. “I don’t even know what it is.”

After opening it up and examining a vial of the liquid, he admits, “I don’t either. If we go to the hospital, I can get it analyzed there.”

“We’re not going to the hospital,” Eridan says flatly.

Kankri snaps, “We are if I say we are. I really thought you would’ve gotten over your aversion to them at this point, since according to Feferi, you spent quite some time in one, and probably had to go back for numerous check-ups.”

“Not. Going.”

Running his hand through his hair fluffs it up more, but it seems to de-stress Kankri some. “Look, Eridan. I get that you’ve got the idea in your head to behave like a stubborn piece of shit, but you are not well. You are, in fact, the exact _opposite_ of well; who fucking knew, right? I strongly suspect you haven’t been taking care of yourself properly, and at the very least, you are going to leave this apartment with an itinerary of exercises to do and appointments to make and tests to get done.” His tablet beeps, and he looks at it, eyebrows drawing together. “Now, I could sit here and talk to you all _night_ about all the ways you have fucked up, but your x-rays are ready.”

You stand so you can look over Kankri’s shoulder at them. You can still see where most of the bones were broken, but you can also see quite a bit of bone growth, and everything appears to be mending properly. Kankri knows more than you though, and he zooms in and looks at each healing fracture, _hmm_ ing and _ahh_ ing as something is explained by the pictures. “How long did you say you were in a recuperacoon for?” he asks.

“Three weeks,” you answer for Eridan.

Kankri’s eyes narrow. “Then he isn’t as far along as he should be in healing. Three weeks in there should’ve put him at about twelve weeks in actuality. You’ve recently hit the sixteenth week mark, just in general, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That means you should be showing at around twenty-five weeks on here.” He taps his tablet screen. “However, the bone growth I’m seeing here makes it look like you’re at sixteen, like the recuperacoon had no effect.”

Eridan blinks hard. “Well, does that mean I did that shit for nothing?”

“Well, no,” Kankri says. “It got you further along into the weightbearing stage, which is good for someone as active as you are, but since you discovered you _could_ walk, you started doing other things too soon, and that’s made the healing process slow down. At this rate, you’re heading for delayed unions.”

“And that means..?”

Reaching a hand up to scratch his head, Kankri continues, “It means what it sounds like—it’ll take longer for the bones to completely knit back together. A lot of your fractures involved the bone being broken into multiple pieces, and that generally takes more time to heal anyway, but you’re just making it worse by jumping around and mistreating yourself. Also, your swollen ankle has a stress fracture around one of the screws. That’s why the pain has increased there. Your braces curve under your foot already, correct?”

“Yeah,” he responds, sounding dazed by the news.

“Then you shouldn’t need any additional support. Just start using crutches again, both for your ankle and because you need to start healing again, and you’ll be fine.”

Eridan looks startled, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. “I can’t do that. I kind of have to start working now.”

“No, you will _rest_ ,” Kankri says, still flicking though his x-rays. “Honestly, other than your slowed healing rate, your x-rays look good, so I’m suspecting soft tissue damage or more nerve damage, though the latter probably wouldn’t hurt as much.” He thinks for a moment, scratching his chin, then says, “Hell, there’s no one using the MRI machine at the hospital right now. Come on, let’s go down there and get this done; the sooner we know what’s wrong with you the better.”

“The hell did I say earlier?” Eridan snaps. “No hospitals.”

Sitting back down next to him and putting a hand on his thigh, you say, “Eridan, if Kankri really thinks you should, you’re damn well going to.”

“Dad told me that I don’t need to go back until I get my next batch of official x-rays in two months, so I’m not going now,” he sighs, seeming more tired by the second.

Kankri puts down his tablet, then slowly turns to face Eridan, crossing his arms over his chest. He inhales, then starts, “You know what? I am so fucking done trying to help someone who obviously doesn’t want to be fixed, but if you want some last words of advice from someone who actually gives two shits about you, you need to start LISTENING TO YOUR FUCKING DOCTORS INSTEAD OF YOUR FATHER! Last time I checked, Seymour Ampora had a doctorate in organizational behavior and _was not a licensed medical professional_!”

While you’re stuck wondering how the heck Kankri knew what Eridan’s dad has a degree in, Eridan’s expression becomes stunned. You don’t think he’s ever heard Kankri yell like this before—it was pretty jarring the first time you’d witnessed it, you remember, but at least it hadn’t been directed at _you_. Here comes the anger you’d seen cracks of earlier, finally boiling over like a pot left on the stove for too long.

When Eridan finally finds his voice, he speaks quietly. “I… I haven’t seen a doctor since I got out of the hospital, since all of my PT has been in a holo—” Now Kankri is the one whose disbelief makes his expression go slack, and Eridan swallows before finishing lamely, “Hologenerator.”

Crouching down in front of the couch, Kankri puts his hands on Eridan’s shoulders, and they stare at each other wordlessly for a few seconds before Kankri’s grip tightens and he shakes him, snarling, “ _That is the stupidest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard!_ Do bucks think that they’ll get better out of sheer willpower?! That’s fucking ridiculous! I DO NOT FUCK AROUND IN MEDICINE AND YOU LISTEN TO ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW, ERIDAN. YOU ARE GOING TO GET UP—actually, that may not be the best idea for you, one of us may have to carry you—AND YOU ARE GOING TO THE MOTHER _FUCKING_ HOSPITAL, WHERE YOU WILL PROCEED TO GET AN M-R-FUCKING-I. I will also suggest—no, _command_ —that when you go back up to the Burbs, you need to schedule an EMG or NCV, since I have never administered either one and it’ll probably be safer up there. And I don’t _care_ if you’re supposed to be starting work with the Angels. You WILL start using crutches again, and then a cane, and hopefully we’ll find out all of this damage is reversible, but you need to prepare for the fact that it might not be.” Finally, Kankri stops shaking him like he’s trying to get his head to come off, but you can see that Eridan is still trembling on his own accord. As Eridan just stares at him, trying and failing to articulate a response, Kankri yells in his face, _“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”_

Eridan promptly bursts into tears.

Of course, this is the point at which Karkat and Kanaya come out of their bedrooms to see what all of the commotion is about. You’re not sure if their astonishment is because the general unexpectedness of Eridan _being_ in their apartment, or because Eridan is _blubbering loudly_ in their apartment. It’s probably a combination of the two.

“What did you _do_?” Karkat demands, staring Kankri down and stomping into the living room. As he comes closer, Eridan makes the decision to bury his face in your shoulder and use your hair as a curtain to hide all of his tears and snot. Some of your curls gets caught in a prosthetic finger joint, and you immediately try to untangle it. His “sorry” is almost swallowed by a sob.

He was never a big crier until he got on Serenity; then, he’d start sniveling at the most minor frustrations, and you’d rub his back to try and mollify him, just like you’re doing now. As Kankri tries to defend himself, saying that Eridan’s being an idiot who’s not taking proper care of himself, you ask, “Eridan, are you back on Serenity?”

You feel him swallow, and your hair shifts as he nods. “They found out,” his sentence is broken by a sob, “how it killed, Mom, and fixed it, and now it’s safe for me, to be on again, and, and, and—”

“Shhhh,” you soothe, trying to pull him closer even though he’s practically in your lap already. You’ve only ever heard him cry like this once before: the night he found out his mother had died. While you think this is a bit much now, remembering what he’d been through last time makes your heart hurt.

Porrim walks around the couch and sits on the other side of him, putting her hand on his knee (even though you can tell she’s still pissed at him) as Kanaya says, “I’ll go get some tissues,” and rushes into the bathroom.

“I hate it,” he moans. “I hate how it, makes me cry, about _anything_.” He grabs his bandaged wrist and with the hand that’s still completely intact, he digs his nails into the smooth strip of underside that isn’t covered, trying to clear his head. You’re surprised to see blood well almost immediately, and you smack his hand away.

Kanaya passes you a wad of toilet paper, you press it against the small, crescent-shaped cuts. They barely broke the skin and you figure they’ll stop bleeding almost immediately, but you still snarl, “Don’t do that, you moron!” He doesn’t respond to that except with a whimper, and you toss the napkin aside once the bit of blood has been dabbed off. Only two of the marks had made him bleed, and they’re already starting to scab over. It takes a lot of pressure to break the skin with your fingernails, though, so you figure the area might end up a little bit bruised. Kanaya hands him some more toilet paper, and he uses it to blow his nose; the resulting sound is choppy because of all his howling. “How long have you been back on it?”

“I started the day after our fight.”

You sigh and kiss the back of his hand. That’s not long for it to have taken full effect again, but it is enough time for his mood swings to even out into a more sappy personality. Kankri takes the lull in conversation to say, “We’ll take a bus down to the hospital once he stops crying. Porrim, Kanaya, Karkat… you all should go back to bed—”

“You seriously think I could sleep at all after this?” Porrim asks quietly. Karkat seems to listen to him, going back into his room for a few minutes as Eridan continues to sob, but he comes back out fully dressed.

As Eridan’s hysterics calm into small sniffles and hiccups, Kanaya decides that she’ll stay here. “I really _would_ like to sleep,” she says, “and I think Eridan has enough people worried about him to meet his attention quota.” She does come over and squeeze his shoulder before she returns to her and Porrim’s shared bedroom, telling him, “Don’t be an imbecile for once, will you?”

You don’t think that’s a promise he can make.

With Kankri on one side of him, you on the other, and Karkat following behind just in case he tips back, you shoulder Eridan to the bus stop; it takes almost ten minutes for the right bus to come, and he rests his head on your shoulder and shifts every now and then, making little pained noises low in his throat, and you rub his back and try to make him feel better. He’s removed his gold vest and tie to be less conspicuous, so now he’s just in a thin dress shirt, and you can feel him shivering slightly. You’d offered to run back upstairs and grab him a jacket, but he’d declined.

The bus is completely empty, and the ride to the hospital is quick, since no one else gets on and the bus only stops once you ask it to. The hospital seems to be busier than any other part of town this late at night, but Kankri gets you through a side door and he takes you up three floors to a deserted wing of the hospital, using his ID to get into the correct department. “It is very convenient,” he says, lips quirking up, “to be an actual _doctor_ now, instead of simply doing my residency.”

He fetches Eridan a gown. Your fashion-conscious best friend makes a face at the itchy cotton material and polka dot pattern, and his displeasure continues when Kankri suggests, “Go into that room there to change, and I should probably come in and help you—”

“Nope.”

Kankri looks irked. “Good luck getting your pants off with that ankle, then.”

“Fef can help.”

His gaze flits to you, exasperated. “Make it quick.”

You shoulder most of his weight as he limps over to the door, and you close it quietly after he flicks on the light. It’s a small room with large windows looking out into the area with the MRI machine, and a switch on the wall shows that they’re tinted and no one can see in right now. The computers on the desk booted up when Eridan turned on the light, but you ignore them as he leans on the counter and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “You don’t actually have to help,” he says, his ears turning red. “I just wanted to talk to you alone for a minute.”

“I’ll help if you need me to,” you say, also feeling kind of awkward since this certainly isn’t how you thought you’d be undressing Eridan for the first time. “What’d you want to ask me?”

“I just…” he grumbles, tossing his shirt on the ground and grabbing the hem of his undershirt. “Gimme a sec.”

You do, and his tank top lands on top of his shirt. Starting to undo his pants, he sighs loudly. “Tell me if you see anything on my back.”

Surprised, you blink hard has he turns around, bracing his hands on the desk and bending like he’s showing off his ass. His pants are still up, thank God, but you don’t see anything out of the ordinary—there’s a puncture scar from the coatrack that mirrors the one on his front and freckles across his shoulder blades, but otherwise the only deformation is a bit of red skin on the small of his back.

“There’s an irritated bit of skin on your spine,” you tell him, and he groans.

“How noticeable is it?”

“Not… too obvious?” you say, feeling confused. “Why are you so worried about it?”

“No reason,” he says shortly, pulling down his pants and exposing his boring, gray boxer briefs. He starts to step out, but some fabric catches on his ankle brace and you see his knees go weak; since he’s already holding the counter with his hands, you don’t think he’s going to fall, but you step closer and grip his waist, lifting him up slightly as he wiggles out of his pants completely, then nudges them away with his toes. His skin is hot—feverish, even—and you pull back when he can stand on his own again. “Thanks.”

He slides on the hospital gown as you ask, “What’s it from?”

“Huh?”

“The red spot. It looks like you tore off a band-aid.”

You watch him struggle to tie the thin straps of the gown behind his neck, then take pity on him and knock his hands away, tying it closed with a neat little bow. A strip of his back down to the waistband of his boxers is visible, including the irritated spot. “Can you still see it?” he questions.

Hmm. He keeps avoiding the answer, which means he thinks you won’t like it, but he asked _you_ to look at the spot instead of Kankri, so he thinks you’ll keep your mouth shut and not tell the doctor—who will know how to berate him properly—about it.

“Nope!” you say cheerfully.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, then turns around. He looks pretty pitiful, between his new getup and the way he’s looking at you from under his eyelashes, and he admits, “I had an MRI before, about a week after I… woke up. They had to knock me out because I didn’t like it.”

“‘Didn’t like it’?” you repeat questioningly.

You see his face heat up, and he scratches the back of his neck, still leaning on the counter with one hand. “I had a panic attack.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

“I’m kind of claustrophobic now,” he says.

“That doesn’t sound like ‘kind of’.”

He snaps defensively, “Look, I got crushed in this teeny-weeny space between crumbling pieces of _building_ and that whole experience freaked me out quite a bit, seeing as I’m now being told this will have repercussions for the rest of my fuckin’ life and at the time I thought I was going to _die_ , so I think it’s fair that I’m not comfortable in situations where I’m reminded of that, alright?”

“I’m not making fun of you for being weak,” you say, holding your hands out to placate him, because his rant made you realize that’s what he thought you were implying. “I’m just trying to understand, okay?”

You see his jaw clench, and you step forward and hug him. You feel him shift to lean more on the desk with his back before his arms wrap around you, squeezing tightly. “They gave you a sedative, the first time?” you ask. You feel him nod into your hair. “Then we’ll ask Kankri to do it this time too; I’m sure he will as long as you pay for it.”

“Okay,” he says, voice muffled.

Kankri is probably getting impatient, so you squeeze him one more time then loop his arm around your shoulders, supporting him back into the room. Porrim is talking quietly, and Kankri is nodding as Karkat leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and eyes glazed over with drowsiness. When Kankri looks over and catches your eye, you look down at the small of Eridan’s back, then back to his gaze. By the expression on his face, he thinks you want him to look at Eridan’s ass, but then he looks back down and his eyes narrow.

“Eridan,” he says, walking over to you and coming up behind him, “what’s this on your back?”

“I… um, banged it on the table in the room over there,” he lies.

Kankri crouches down and runs his finger across it, and Eridan shivers. Kankri’s voice is dangerous when he speaks. “Have you been fucking _patching_?!”

Eridan flounders for a second. “I. Uh. I’ve been using pain relievers in patch form, if that’s what you’re asking—”

“Please tell me,” his voice is low, “that you’re not taking fentanyl.”

“So… am I allowed to lie, then?”

Kankri makes a noise like an angry teakettle and you think he might start shaking Eridan by the shoulders again, but having Eridan cry once in a night is enough so you speak up. “Why is that so bad?” you ask. You’ve never heard of the drug yourself, but if it made him able to get around without a lot of pain, surely it couldn’t be _that_ terrible.

“It’s not,” Eridan says before the actual _doctor_ can answer.

“There was a time where it was good, yes!” Kankri bites. “But now it’s been modified to hell and the church makes it _just to get bucks addicted,_ and when the victims get tired of paying for the high price-tag, they usually go on to heroin. Who have you been getting it from?”

“…Gamzee Makara.”

“Have you been shooting up _heroin_?” you demand to know, voice shrill. _You_ might shake him!

“No!” he exclaims, hunching over slightly like he wants to recede into a turtle shell. “Of course not! I mean, Gam offered but I said I wasn’t into that shit—”

“But you will be soon!” Kankri huffs, rolling his eyes. “Or you would’ve been, but there’s no fucking way I’m going to let you touch one of those ever again.”

“You haven’t seen me on them,” Eridan says, voice starting to shake. “It’d already worn off by the time I got to the gala but Kank, I could _walk_ on them; hell, I could run and jump and go through my fucking Angel exam with only _twinges_. I switched meds so I wouldn’t get addicted to my first one so at least I’ve been _trying_ to watch out for myself!”

Kankri deadpans, “You’ve been doing a completely terrible job of that, by the way.”

“Eridan,” Karkat says, speaking up after being uncharacteristically silent for most of this ordeal, “we’ve _talked_ about this, dude. I know you hate feeling fucking terrible, and I know all of this sucks major balls, but you promised me you weren’t going to do anything stupid and you promised Feferi the same thing, so why don’t you stop being a promise-breaking loser and actually _listen_ to us for once?”

He leans more of his weight on you, and you wrap your arm tighter around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he warbles. “I… I’ll…” He sighs. “Kank, what can I go on that won’t completely fuck me up?”

“Wean yourself off the fentanyl first,” Kankri says softly, like he also realizes how close Eridan is to going off again. “How long have you been on it? How much have you been taking?”

“Three weeks. I’ve been doing a single patch every two days, except today, where I did two in the morning and took them off right before coming over here, ‘cause my dad told me not to take anything else while on that liquid shit.”

“That’s not horrible,” Kankri says, coming to stand next to him and patting him on the shoulder. His anger has diffused, just like it did earlier when Karkat had yelled at him for making Eridan cry, and now he’s at his most understanding. “Do another one tomorrow, then wait three days, then four, then five. Once you hit a week, do that one then never put on another one, okay?”

“Okay,” Eridan says weakly.

“You’re probably going to have some withdrawal symptoms,” Kankri warns. “You’ll be achy and itchy and probably throw up some. Make sure that you’re eating and drinking enough and do not take another patch too soon, no matter how much you want to. Wear your braces and use your crutches so you won’t be in a lot of additional pain from your injuries, and this’ll be easier on you.”

“I… Kank,” he says, and you feel his knees give out. You lower him to the ground and sit next to him, rubbing his back as Kankri crouches down to stay at eye-level. “Kank, what the hell do I tell my dad?”

“Tell him you went to the Burbs hospital—not because of the initiation, but because of your legs. Tell him that a doctor there advised you what I’m telling you now and hopefully he’ll accept that you need more time to recuperate before going to work. You underwent a very traumatic injury. He has to understand you’re not better yet.”

Eridan swallows and nods. Scooting in closer, you venture, “You could always move back in with me, you know.”

“I would love to,” he says, sounding earnest, “I would absolutely _love_ to, but I can’t. I need to sort out my shit up there before I make a move.”

“Okay,” you say, past feeling angry by his refusal to come back.

“Now,” Kankri says, standing and rubbing his hands together, “let’s get this bus on the road, shall we?”

You help Eridan stand, and he clears his throat awkwardly. “Could you, um… knock me out?”

When Kankri rises a questioning eyebrow, you add, “He’s claustrophobic.”

Kankri goes into the control room and comes back with a little white pill and a small bottle of water. “Take this sedative; it’s incredibly fast-acting and you’ll be drowsy in no time.”

“I’m not supposed to take anything else right now,” Eridan says warily.

“Oh, says the kid who’s been buying illegal fentanyl patches,” Kankri snaps. “Just take it, I promise you’ll be fine.”

You, Porrim, and Karkat wait in the hall as Eridan is scanned and Kankri controls it. After a few minutes, Karkat falls asleep on Porrim’s shoulder, and you wonder—not for the first time—how the Maryams and Vantases all met and started living together. They’d been a family a long time, you know, long enough that Porrim knew Kankri when he was still a kid, and by the way Porrim is looking at Karkat now, the vibe you get from her is a motherly one. You don’t ask now, though, because you’re all tired and you don’t want to wake up Karkat.

Eridan is very groggy and dressed in his regular clothes when he and Kankri come out of the room an hour later. He’ll receive his MRI results by tomorrow evening, but for now Kankri gets him a pair of crutches. These are different than his old ones—now, they’re forearm rather than underarm, and Kankri shows him how to use them properly with minimal weight bearing, using the left crutch with the right leg and vice versa. He already seems to be in less pain, though he does look awkward using them, like he’s ashamed to be seen with them. You want to smack some sense into him for that.

By the time you make it back to your apartment, it’s past five in the morning, and you’re more than ready for sleep. You change into pajamas and all Eridan has are the clothes on his back, so he strips off his dress shirt and pants, staying in his undershirt and boxers. You try to politely ignore how each article of clothing clings to him, and it’s easy enough once you turn off the light and get into bed.

You don’t have time to get under the covers before Eridan asks in a small voice, “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?”

Blinking bemusedly, you respond, “Well we slept in the same bed for years before you left, so of course not, come on.”

He sinks onto the mattress, leaning his crutches on the wall and crossing his legs carefully, sitting on top of the blankets rather than getting under them. “Then can we talk?”

“Not for long, I hope; I’m tired,” you say wryly.

“Sorry,” he says, and you don’t say _it’s all right_ because he’s already continuing. “There’s been something bothering me, about the Angel exam.”

“Besides your death?”

You can barely see his shrug in the darkness. “That caught me off-guard, sure, and I wasn’t really _fine_ afterwards, but… I’m okay now, except for the fact that I had to kill my mother.”

Your eyebrows draw together. “ _What_?”

“It was part of the simulation. Dad said they use family members in it so they know you won’t break, if you’re ever faced with that sort of thing, because any old idiot could kill a stranger. I just… I shot her down and followed protocol perfectly and ended up killing my mother and this is making me _think_ , like…” He swallows, hands curling into fists in his lap, and _this_ is what messed him up more than anything, you believe. The Angel initiation might’ve killed him, sure, but he’d almost been dead once before and this time was marginally more pleasant. Having him grieve for his mother all over again is really the worst thing they did to him tonight. “What if I’m working in the field and I get the order to execute Karkat, or interrogate Porrim? If I could do that to my mom without a second thought, what could I do to people that are actually still _alive_?”

“You knew it was a simulation,” you try to comfort, reaching across the space between you and taking both of his hands. He uncurls his fists and lets you stroke his fingers; his metal ones are cold, and his remaining ones feel nearly skeletal without his rings. “Maybe you wouldn’t do the same thing in real life.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” he repeats. “But Fef, it felt so fuckin’ real that I… I—” He swallows again, squeezing your hands. “I didn’t hesitate then, and I’m afraid that I won’t hesitate in the future. God, if I ever hurt one of them, how the hell would I live with myself? And I just feel like it’s inevitable that I will, because they are The Enemy and now I’m just this demon with no impulse control and dear God, Mom was right, I’m a _monster_ , I…”

You don’t tell him that he’s not. You don’t say that he’s being too hard on himself, that he’d never be in that kind of situation, because those are empty lies and he doesn’t need to hear them. Letting go of his hands, you lean forward and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He buries his face in your neck and you feel him take a deep breath as you run your hand up and down his spine. His fists curl in your shirt and you think he’d like to stick you in his coat pocket and keep you forever, but that’s not the way the world works and you don’t exist solely to be his comfort object.

“Promise me,” he says in a low voice, bringing his head around to lay his forehead against yours. His breath is warm on your face, and the feeling gives you goosebumps. “Promise me that if you ever see me trying to hurt someone we care about, or if God forbid I ever try to hurt you…” He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling loudly through his nose. “Stop me. Do whatever you have to, just stop me.”

“I’ll stop you now—stop being so dramatic,” you berate, pulling back a little then knocking him in the head with yours. He blinks, dazed. “Just listen to what I’ve been telling you for _years_! You are not a machine that they just stick orders into and you preform them. You have thoughts, and feelings, and if you don’t want to hurt someone then _don’t_. I will not promise you that, because we need you to be better than who you think you are.”

“Just because you need me to be doesn’t mean I am,” he protests. “Fef, _promise_.”

“No.”

He opens his mouth to try and convince you further—you can already hear his whiny, self-deprecating speech—but you continue, “I can’t save you from yourself. Only you can do that, and Eridan, I believe you’re better than you think you are, even if you couldn’t get it through your thick skull that you were miserable without being entirely aware of your misery. If you don’t want to hurt anyone, you won’t. It’s that simple.”

Sighing, Eridan says, “You always think of shit in black and white when it’s really _not_ that simple. I thought living in the Furthest Ring helped you find the gray areas.” It’s not a very kind thing to say, but you doubt he means it in a hurtful way. “You think there are good people and bad people, and you’ve renounced your mother as bad and since I’m your best friend, you stuck me in the good category because you’re good and wouldn’t be able to stand being around me otherwise. But I’m gray, Fef,” he pulls away from you some, but still keeps a firm grip on each of your hands, “and that means that I can be both, I hope. I’m good just because I love some specific people down here and bad because I’m afraid I’d kill them if I was told to. I want you to be my conscience, because you’re tons more good than bad.”

“That’s a lot to ask of someone,” you say, letting go of his hands and laying yours demurely in your lap. “Even someone that loves you as much as I do.”

You hear him swallow. “Yeah, I guess it is. And I am truly sorry about the fight, by the way. I was stressed as hell and I took it out on you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you say. “I was also pretty anxious, with the gala coming up and all of the preparation involved with that. Neither of us were at our best.”

When the silence stretches long enough to make you think that’s all he has to say for the night, you climb under the covers, and Eridan follows. You start off with a foot between you, but soon the gap closes and you’re pressed together back-to-back, breathing in rhythm so your chest falls as his rises. With his steady presence near you, it doesn’t take long to drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Eridan isn’t in bed with you when you wake up in the morning—or afternoon, you guess, since a glance at the tablet on your nightstand tells you it’s one o’clock. You really hope he didn’t just get up and ditch you, but then you realize it’s _his_ tablet that’s next to you, so he still has to be here somewhere. Getting out of bed, you put on some clothes and go to find him.

He isn’t in the apartment at all, and the silence from upstairs makes you think he isn’t there either. When you’re near the couch, you see the curtains rustle with a breeze, so you head over to the window and see that it’s wide open. Curious, you step out onto the fire escape and climb up to the roof.

You find him up there, sitting right next to the edge. You’re pleased to see that the crutches Kankri gave him are resting on the ground to his left. His feet are drawn together, creating a diamond between the peak of his toes and his knobby knees and his crotch. The position has to be putting some strain on his legs. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” you inquire.

He turns, and you see that his skin is flushed pink from sitting in direct sunlight for a while; it’s the middle of the day, and the sun is beating down hard. His expression is closed off, but he doesn’t tell you to go away, so you sit next to him on the edge of the roof, feet dangling over the side.

“Don’t do that, Fef, you might fall,” he protests, but there’s no rebuke in it like there usually is. He’s quietly stating it, making a request more than a demand.

You shrug slightly and point your toes toward the sky. “I’ll be fine.” Kicking your feet languidly like you’re dangling them in a pool, you ask, “Why’d you come up here?”

Sighing, he pulls his legs up so he can perch his chin on his knees. He’s wearing a pair of loose shorts that belong to you, so you can see that his bad ankle isn’t swollen enough to be pressing against the drop foot brace anymore. “I felt like some fresh air, and I like being higher up.” You snort and roll your eyes, then he defends, “I didn’t mean it like that. I like having a good vantage point, and you can see a lot of shit from up here.”

Remembering when you used to drag Aradia to the top of Derse to look over the city and the ocean, you smile slightly. “Yeah, I guess so. Are you going to go back up to the Burbs?”

“Mhmm,” he responds quietly. “Used my tablet to make a doctor’s appointment for 4pm so I could get that nerve thing Kankri was talking about. InternetMD said it involves quite a few needles, but I’m pretty used to them at this point, so it’s nothing to cringe over.”

“Hopefully nothing shows up except what’s wrong with your foot,” you say. He doesn’t seem to have a reply prepared, so you just sit in silence; you’re content to do so, watching the city bustle under you while also trying to figure out how you’re going to tell Eridan about the plan you’d made for today before he was in the picture. He eventually tires of the foot of distance between the two of you and scoots over, though he’s reluctant to initiate any contact besides just pressing his right side against your left. Just like old times, you lean over and rest your head on his shoulder, and he dips down so his cheek plops onto your hair.

Closing your eyes, you try to remember him like this: pensive and tender and sane. You feel content with him, like he’s supporting you by simply sitting by your side. Unbidden, your mind flits back to the fight you had with him a few days ago; you think it’s going to be a while before you can look at him _without_ thinking about it. He hadn’t been that spiteful towards you in a long time, and it still leaves a sick feeling in your stomach.

With him back on Serenity, you hopefully don’t have to worry about his fits of irrational anger anymore, but at least you know you could beat him in a fight, if it ever came to that—all you’d have to do is go for his legs, and he’d be down almost immediately.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks.

“You.” It’s a pretty vague answer, but true. You need to talk out your issues with each other _soon_ so you don’t have any more blowouts, and you know he knows that. You don’t think either of you want to bring it up right now, so you figure you’ll just wait until next time you see him. Since you still kind of feel like you’re on shaky ground with him, you uncharacteristically add before your question, “If you don’t mind me asking—”

“Fef, you can ask me anything.” You can feel him speak from where your head is barely brushing against his neck, and it makes you feel warm. “You know that.”

Pursing your lips first as you reconsider how to phrase this, you say, “You said that they figured out what killed your mom, with Serenity. What was it?”

Even though he’d already been talking quietly, his voice drops even lower. “You know how Ruf was always talking about how he thought Serenity was a mind control drug?”

You already don’t like where this is going. “Yeah..?”

“Well…” You feel him swallow. “Someone upstairs was listening. Or maybe they had the idea for years, I don’t know. The drug manufacturers were experimenting with different combinations of stuff to make people on Serenity more… _susceptible_ to other people’s ideas, without telling any of the drug users they were doing so, probably because they were trying to get unbiased results.”

“Isn’t that _illegal_ _to a ridiculous degree_?”

“It should be,” he says, sounding very bitter. “The main people in charge were acquitted because they framed the brainwashing aspect as trying to make people more agreeable rather than aggressive, but it was _such_ bullshit. Your mother thought so too—she hired a hit on the main guy. He was assassinated in his bathtub.”

Since your mother is a long-time Serenity user, you’re not surprised—she wouldn’t want to ingest anything that could possibly control her. “So I take it your mom was an unwilling test subject?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracks, and you move your arm around his waist. “She had a bad allergic reaction to one of the new chemicals and just like that, she was gone.”

You’ve said this enough times, but he could stand to hear it again. “I’m so sorry, Eridan.”

“It’s been a few months at this point,” he says, reaching over to a lock of hair that’s in front of your face and tucking it behind your ear; his finger skims across your cheek as he does so, and it tickles. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, especially when I was still recovering in the hospital. And… I’ve made peace with the fact I wasn’t there for it. I mean, I still wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye and I think that’s something I’m going to feel bitter about for the rest of my fuckin’ life, but me being there wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

“You would’ve gotten closure,” you say, starting to rub circles on his hip with your fingers. “I’m sorry you didn’t have the chance.”

He falls quiet again after that, and your thoughts turn towards your own mother. You think that maybe, in a better world, this conversation would’ve made you want to make amends with your mom before it was too late; however, Eridan’s mother wasn’t a vile, neglectful, witch of a woman that tossed you away like a faulty piece of tech. You still need your own kind of closure, though—you need your trident back, you need to know what the Pisces Project really is, and you need to get her to tell you who the hell your father is. Talking about him to Aradia the other day made you yearn for the answer more than ever.

“I think I’m going to—”

“Fef I really want—”

You both start talking at the same time, then stop and laugh a little. “You first,” he says. When you glance upward, you can barely see his face, but you can tell he’s blushing. What a dork.

“I’m going to go back to the Burbs with you,” you say, and you feel him stiffen. You tighten your arm around him, telling him to relax without saying the word. “I’ll walk to your dad’s apartment and make sure you get there safely.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he says.

“And then,” you continue like he hadn’t said anything, “I’m going to go to my mother’s office and get some answers.”

He makes a thoughtful noise deep in his throat, refusing to look you in the eye. His brow ceases, and your reach over to press your thumb on the indent between his eyebrows, asking, “What were you going to say?”

Eridan releases his breath slowly, still not meeting your gaze. “Nothing,” he says quietly. “Absolutely nothing.” He’s silent for another movement, and then he moves to get up. He seems to feel better today, but you still keep your arm around his waist and help him up. Positioning himself on his crutches, he says, “I think it’s time to go.”

“Yeah,” you say distantly, and while it occurs to you that you want to keep spending time with him, you know there are more pressing matters to attend to. “It’s past time.”

 

* * *

 

You mother is not in her office. There’s a different receptionist than the one that was there when you first came to her office demanding answers and this one is less snappish, telling you that she’s down in the lab and will be back within the next hour or two. Not wanting to miss her, you sit down in one of the chairs outside the door and wait.

When she walks in an hour and a half later, wearing her long hair in a high ponytail like she does when she’s been in the lab, her lip curls like she’s looking at something gross and she snaps, “Hemera, why’d you let her in?”

“She’s your daughter,” the woman says, sounding confused.

Your mother lets out a long, irritated sigh, grabbing your arm roughly and pulling you out of the chair, dragging you into her office and slamming the door behind her. Your trident is still mounted on the wall behind her desk, looking as shiny and perfect as it’s ever been, and you don’t give her the satisfaction of staring at it this time. You yank out of her grip, surprised that none of her sharp, blood-red nails punctured your skin, and say, “Don’t worry, this will be a short visit.”

“I really don’t need this today,” she growls, walking around her desk and sinking into her high-backed bleached leather chair.

“Good, then this will be _really_ quick!” you say cheerily. “Who is my father?”

She freezes, fingers hovering just above the glass top of her desk. Then she laughs—a horrible, grating sound that makes you want to put your hands over your ears. “You mean you haven’t figured it out yet?” she questions.

Affronted, you say, “You’ve given me literally _nothing_ to go off—”

“Aww darling I knew you were stupid for someone so high up, but I didn’t know how deeply your foolishness ran. Meenah figured it out years ago; I guess that’s because she’s more me than you are, and that’s a hard feat to accomplish.”

You blink hard, befuddled by the turn this conversation has taken. “That’s such a weird thing to say!”

“It’s not, in context,” she says, shrugging. “Feferi, do you _really_ want to know who your father is? Because I’ll tell you.”

She never offers information willingly—you thought that you were going to have to argue with her for _hours_ before wearing her down. “What’s the catch?” you ask suspiciously.

“The answer’s going to break you.”

Immediately, you begin going through a list of men your mother has fraternized with. Gareth Makara is your least favorite on it, but there’s no way you could possibly be related to him, right? Oh no, what if she’d made Seymour Ampora cheat on his wife and it turns out Eridan is your _half-brother_? If it’s the tech-prodigy puppet whose mind she wiped years ago, you’d be sick, because your father would be a man with a personality completely eaten away by I &A, a husk of a person that no longer exists, a drone.

“Tell me.”

“I am.”

She laughs again at the expression on your face. “You are _me_. Just me,” she says louder.

“I know what sex is for,” you snarl defensively, hating that she’s mocking you and you’re still so _confused_ , “so that’s impossible.”

“You and your sister are part of the Pisces Program,” she says, smiling like she’s ecstatic to know you’re starting to feel disturbed. “Meenah is my exact copy. You are what I pulled together with some recessive genes that I don’t show, physically. Christ, you still thought you had a _father_.” She spits the word out, like it’s rotten fish she refuses to swallow. “What a fucking joke.”

“I… I’m your clone?” you ask quietly.

Out of everything you were prepared to hear, you were not expecting this.

“Meenah’s the clone,” she says, rolling her eyes at you, “and you’re the little piece of dysfunctionality that I fiddled with too much and came out faulty. Just look at you: you have no direction, no idea where the hell your life is going to end up because you had a good position all lined up and you threw it away to live in squalor with people who don’t know left from right. You could’ve had anything you wanted up here, because of who I am and what I made you for, but you decided that you wanted to be a loser instead. So dearest Feferi, you are me and only me, and if you think I’m a monster, then what the hell does that make you?” She slams her fists on her desk, and you flinch, surprised that the glass doesn’t shatter. “Now _get the fuck out_!”

You don’t start thinking again until you’re inside of an elevator, descending towards the Furthest Ring. You just did what your mother said, scurrying from her office and down the street, not even considering dropping in on Eridan, who was getting his nerve testing done two buildings over. Even as you step into the elevator depot down below and start back towards your home, you carefully will your mind blank, no longer running on adrenaline and crippling fear. Once you’re into your apartment, you deadbolt the door with shaking fingers then slide down the back of it, putting your head in your hands and fighting the urge to scream.

You’re her you’re her _you’re her_!

The dreams you’ve been having about a father mean nothing—he’s just another figment of your imagination, inexistent and inconsequential. All you are is Glenda Peixes, who is cruel and cold and everything you’ve tried to never be, and that _wrecks_ you, because no amount distance will ever change the fact that she has written your DNA and designed you to be who _she_ is.

Your hair and eyes and ears and height are all identifiably _hers_. Though it’s Meenah who’s truly her clone—no wonder they look exactly alike, it’s because they _are_ —every element of yourself still comes from that deplorable woman, and you want to burn off all of your features that are direct reflections of her. Even everything you thought was your own—your nose, your cheeks, your softness—are hers too, even if they’re hidden deep enough in her gene pool that they didn’t display on the original canvas. You want to change everything about yourself, make it so you’re unattached to her because she is a _monster_ , and you can’t let yourself be _her_ …

You cannot gouge out your eyes or cut off your ears of lop inches off your frame, but there is one thing you can change.

There are scissors in a kitchen drawer. You take them out and wipe the blades on the hem of your shirt before grabbing a chunk of your hair and cutting above your hand. Your curls are thick and try to jam the blades, but _you need it all off_ , so you hack through them, throwing fistfuls of frizz to the ground. Each stroke of the scissors is different from the last, and you know this cut will be uneven, missing some of the long strands that fall to your waist. Once you’ve snipped off both sides and are working on the back, you start to calm down and a leaden pit begins to form in your stomach, because you just cut off all of your hair; you _loved_ your hair.

Swallowing, you put the scissors down on the counter and look at the kitchen floor. _What a mess,_ you think, surrounded by frizzy curls. Stepping over them, you scurry to the bathroom, where you look into the streak-stained mirror to see the damage you’ve dealt. There are still some longer chunks of hair draping over your shoulders, but most of your curls have been cut to just above your collar bones, even to your chin in some places. Combined with the feverish look in your eyes and the red flush of your cheeks, you look manic, depraved. You splash some water on your face to try and calm yourself, but now you’re just shaking and wet.

With a sigh, you bury your face in a towel, scream into it in frustration, then head upstairs for the second time today.

You knock, and Kankri answers, looking completely exhausted. “Hi,” you say to him as he takes you in with wide eyes. “Is Porrim here?”

“What on Earth happened?” he questions, stepping to the side so you can walk in. He shuts the door behind you then calls, “Porrim!”

“I had an identity crisis,” you say sheepishly, and he continues to look bewildered. “It… I…” You trail off, quite not knowing what to say, and you look at your feet; this makes you realize that you didn’t put on any shoes before you left. Oops.

Then Kankri is hugging you, and he’s strong and solid and he smells like cheap conditioner. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and cling, because yeah, you really needed a hug. Kankri would never put up with you if you were anything like your mother, so you must be _somewhat_ of a decent person. “Whatever is bothering you may be stressful,” he says, patting your back, “but everything is going to be fine.”

You swallow away the lump in your throat, then squeeze him tighter before letting go and giving him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Porrim sees you and knows immediately what you’re here for, taking your hand without a word and leading you into the bathroom. She has you sit on the floor and lean back over the bathtub as she squats to the proper height and starts snipping, even more of your hair falling away. “I can salvage some of the length if you let me layer it,” she says. “Otherwise, I’ll have to do a blunt cut to your chin.”

“Don’t do too much layering,” you direct, “but save what you can.”

She grunts and sticks another clip into your hair.

It doesn’t take long for her to salvage the wreck that your hair became, and soon you’re looking at yourself in the mirror again, whipping your head back and forth to watch your curls bounce. You haven’t had hair this short since you were a toddler, as you always kept it past your shoulder blades at all times, even growing it out to the back of your knees at some points in your life. Your head feels so much lighter with all of that extra weight gone, and you know it’ll be a lot easier to take care of now, but the presence of all that hair was reassuring.

But it was _hers_ , in a way you can’t afford. You need to distance yourself from your mother’s image and this, you think, was a decent way of doing it.

You are not Glenda Peixes. She has long, blonde hair. You are Feferi. You’re not exactly sure what that means yet, but it has to mean _something_.

“How do you like it?” Porrim asks.

Smiling ruefully, you say, “It looks better than when I did it. Porrim…” You purse your lips and think, trying to get your question out exactly how you want it. “If I were some megalomaniacal, sadistic bitch, and I ever decided that I was pro-eugenics, you would smack some sense into me, right?”

“Duh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I doubt we’d ever have to deal with that, though, because I don’t think you’re the kind of person who would willingly stick their head back up their own ass after it’s already been extracted.”

“Good,” you say, but you still feel like crying, because everything else about you is still your mother’s. Porrim seems to sense this, because she wraps her arms around you, tucking your head under her chin like Eridan does when he hugs you. You let her hold you, deeply appreciative of the comfort, and you think that they would rather fight a school of sharks before they’d ever consider your mother worth loving, so there’s no possible way you are actually her.

You will never be her. You have to believe that, or all of this will have been for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapters will be returning to their usual length, but next chapter _does_ include a different change.  >:)


	20. XIX- 12 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to normal chapter lengths! And also, it's time for something a bit different with the POV.

Tues 10/20/2291 9:38am

FROM: kankri.vantas@sgrub.com

SUBJECT: Results

TO: amporaeri@sburb.com

ATTACHMENTS: MRI1.jpg, MRI2.jpg, MRI3.jpg, MRI4.jpg, compartmentsyndrome.pdf, acutelimbischemia.pdf, posttraumaticarthritis.pdf, eridansuggestions.docx

MESSAGE: Please forward me your EMG results when you get them; I’m sure the doctors up there will do a good job with any diagnoses, but I’d like to take a look as well. Familiarize yourself with all of the attachments and get the compartment syndrome treatment ASAP——today, if possible. Don’t put this off.

Dr. Kankri Vantas, M.D.

Office 3369, Hours 6am-4pm

(321)425-3948 ext. 254

 

You received the email two days ago, and you hadn’t been able to get another appointment at the hospital up here until today. You vaguely remember being told that you’d been treated for compartment syndrome while in the recuperacoon, but apparently that shit can resurface if you combine vigorous exercise with healing from a crush injury. Go figure.

You’d sent ahead the MRI stuff Kankri had given you, and the doctors you’d dealt with before have already gone over it, sending you a giant wall of text about how your acute limb ischemia had been promptly managed after you’d been brought in and shouldn’t be causing you trouble now so it was probably that your muscles were still pretty damn atrophied and you needed to adjust your braces to bear less weight so your muscles will start building again and blah blah blah. It nearly put you to sleep, and the medical jargon made it so you only understood every other word. You’d forwarded it to Kankri for him to analyze and set up an appointment to get more surgery.

As you sit in the waiting room, having already filled out all the necessary paperwork, you start to feel nervous. Before your multiple surgeries a few months ago, you hadn’t felt any anxiety, mostly because you’d been knocked the fuck out and stayed knocked the fuck out for a few weeks. By the time you’d become aware of your surroundings, your incisions were healed. There wasn’t time to be freaked out about going under the knife.

But this was an easy procedure, they’d told you. This wasn’t acute, like it was when you’d first been injured, and they had to make long incisions on your legs to fix the issue. This was brought on by exercise and exacerbated by your predilection for compartment syndrome, and this would be taken care of with minimal permanent damage.

 _Permanent damage_. It’s a scary phrase. By the way they said “minimal”, you knew there would have to be _some_.

Then you’re being fetched and hooked up to and IV line, and there’s no more time to sulk about how fucked up you are and be anxious about the permanent repercussions of what happened in June. You are unceremoniously knocked out.

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, you’re not Eridan Ampora. Why the hell do you think you need to be him right now, anyway? He’s going to be groggy all day from being sliced open, and he’s going to make Cronus come get him because his dad’ll be mad he decided to get cut up without asking his permission, and they’ll do brotherly bonding bullshit and by no doubt hate each other by the end of the day. Cronus will still get Eridan stay over at his place for the night, though. Someone’s got to make sure he doesn’t walk.

No, you need to be someone who is actually going to get some shit done today! It’s a good thing you’re just the person who can make that dream come true.

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you’re currently at Cascade.

“I’m looking for Crowbar,” you tell the bartender. She nods her head to the spiral staircase in the back, and you head up it, finding yourself in a long hallway with rows of identical doors. You find the one labeled “7” and knock; God knows what he’s doing in there. He grunts, and you enter.

Luckily, he’s only lounging around, completely clothed. He’s even wearing his favorite maroon hat, which clashes with his dark green suit. His dress shirt is untucked, and his shoes are off, revealing plain black socks that have a hole in the big toe. “Oh,” he says, “Serket. You don’t have it, do you?”

You bury your hand in your hair, pulling out your hair tie and looping it around your wrist as your hair spills in waves across your back. “I don’t think it actually exists.”

“It does, believe me.” He sighs. “God fucking dammit. The boss isn’t gonna be happy.”

“He hasn’t been happy in forever,” you bite. “I’ve been looking for _years_ , and trust me, I looked hard! I want to get this over with, so I’m telling you, _it doesn_ _’t exist_.”

“Maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are,” he says, shrugging. “You’re cutting it really fucking close to the deadline to try and renegotiate.”

 _Tick tock._ You still have some of the notes, even though you’d started burning them. You’d had hundreds of them—they were shoved in your closet and under your bed and in your dresser. There was no place one of Scratch’s men hadn’t touched, even the inside of Eridan’s head.

That’s what made you realize how serious this was. Eridan knew something—he wouldn’t have said _tick tock_ otherwise, you don’t believe in coincidence. You could tell by the expression on his face when you’d pinned him down. If Scratch had started manipulating people around you in hopes to speed up your search, he’d certainly accomplished _something_.

“I think I can persuade him to see my side of things,” you say. “Where is he?”

“Hell if I know,” he says, reaching for a cup of coffee on his desk. He takes a very small sip before setting it back down; meanwhile, you are not buying his bullshit.

“What do you _mean_ you don’t know where he is?” you demand. ““You’re his second-in-command! You _have_ to know!”

“Listen, girlie, there’s a lot of shit going on right now,” he says, still neutral with a tiny tinge of irritation, “but if you really want him to kill you in person for being a disappointment, you need to talk with Megido. She’ll know where he’s at, since he always wants her in his bed.”

He doesn’t mean Aradia.

“Do you know where she is?” you question. She’s normally here, fucking people in the back or bartending, but it’s too early in the day for the pleasure rooms to be open and she wasn’t at the counter when you came in.

Crowbar’s eye twitches at your continued line of questioning—it must get annoying to be the guy people look for when they want to get to Scratch, but you don’t particularly care—and he replies, “She couldn’t come in today, said her sister wanted her help stocking shit at her store.”

Curios and Culminates. You know of it. “I guess I’ll be going then, unless you’ve got anything else to tell me.”

He snorts. “I like you Serket, but I like myself more. Get out before he realizes you were here. You want to meet him on your terms, not his.”

“I know,” you snap, and stride from the room, chin high. To find Megido it is, then.

You’ll have to take a bus to get to Derse, right? You don’t have a pass or change, but hopefully they’ll take a card; bucks don’t really carry physical money. Inconvenience is exclusively found in the Furthest Ring, so you shouldn’t be surprised that they have to carry around things like _cash_. It’s been years since you’ve been to that old hotel, but you think you remember the way, so you find a bus stop and wait, getting on the first one that comes up.

Judging by the route that’s displayed on the dashboard, you got on the wrong bus—this one takes you to the hospital area. However, there’s a bus terminal where it seems like you can catch the right one in a few minutes. Rolling your eyes at this stupid system, you head to the back of the bus and sit in the corner, keeping your head down and re-tying your hair. You’ve dressed pretty inconspicuously, with your re-positioned ponytail and very little makeup. You have on simple black jeans and a blue t-shirt, with no visible jewelry or a purse. You have a handheld tablet stuffed in your pocket, because your bigger one would be easier to steal, and your debit card slides neatly into your back pocket. You can blend well enough down here, but there’s just something about you that makes heads turn, like people know you’re a threat. It makes you feel powerful.

The bus ride is boring as hell, but you exchange buses and arrive at Derse without any further trouble. Of course, Aradia is the only Megido in the store when you arrive. There are three patrons inside and you want to make them scram, but you don’t need Aradia hating you more than she already does—your little “feud” is already pretty damn inconvenient—so you wait outside, ducking back into the hall before she can see you. It takes ten minutes for everyone to leave, and it looks like only one guy bought something. How does this stupid store even make a profit?

“Knock knock,” you say loudly as you re-enter, and Aradia immediately glares at you. It’s the first time you’ve seen her since pushing Tavros off a balcony, and she’s gotten some height, weight, and is now half metal. You’d already known the last thing, of course, since you’d caused it, and you’d bet your entire inheritance that your metal arm could beat hers in an arm wrestling match.

Aradia doesn’t like that you’re here, obviously. Her eye twitches, and she says in a low voice, “Get out before I make you.”

“Ooooooooh, so intimidating, I’m literally shaking here! Look, I’m not here for you, okay?” you snap, rolling your eyes. “I need to talk to Damara.”

“Why?” she questions, crossing her arms over her chest.

“None of your fucking business,” you reply, leaning on the counter and inspecting your nails. Aradia refuses to play it cool, and her foot taps impatiently. “Just tell me where she is and I’ll be out of your way.” When she still stares at you with distrust, you say, “Holy shit, Megido, make this easy! Not every interaction between us has to be tense and terrible, you know? Let grievances lie and all that shit. It’s not like I’m going to beat her up and take her shit or something, I just need to talk to her. You know, the thing civilized people do?”

“Fuck off,” she says conversationally, then turns and goes over to a table of dumb rocks.

You’re about to follow her over and needle her more when a voice from behind you says, “Oh. It’s you.”

“Damara!” you exclaim with false cheer, turning around and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “It’s so good to see you!”

She spits on your shoe. You’re glad they’re closed-toe.

“Nice greeting,” you snort, rubbing it against the makeshift checkout counter. “Anyway, I think we have some shit we need to discuss in the hall.”

She’s unimpressed. You don’t think she’s ever been impressed in her entire dismal life. “Whatever bullshit you have to say can be said in front of Aradia.”

It’s a bluff. You call it. “So, about your relations with the leader of the Felt—”

Damara yanks you into the hallway and slams the door shut before Aradia can even react. She’s fast, even when she’s obviously blazed. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” she demands. “You cannot just come here and start talking about _sex_ with my younger sister in the room.”

“Isn’t that your _job_?” you say slowly, so she’ll get it. “And you act like sex is such a foreign thing to her, like Captor didn’t start fucking her the second she was half-metal because that nerd would _definitely_ want to go down on a girl that’s half-computer.”

You are slapped. Hard. It knocks your head to the side and you don’t let yourself put a hand to your cheek to soothe the sting, laughing instead. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system, I want you to tell me where Scratch is right now.”

You’ve been told that Damara Megido is his most trusted confidant. He has a weakness for whores in general, but Damara is his princess—she is the only one he allows into his hidden home, along with her mother, who is his maid. You wonder if they’ve ever had a threesome, but even _you_ think that question crosses a line. Doc Scratch is an arrogant man and if he bragged as much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t be as powerful as he is, so rumor has it he dumps it all off on her and most of it on Crowbar so he can do his work in relative shadow. It must pay reasonably well to be Scratch’s favorite, so she’s probably pretty damn grateful to him, even if she has to fuck a dude twice her age.

The hate that flashes in her expression when you mention Scratch by name confuses you, but it’s raw and powerful and in that moment, you wonder what kind of damage some lowly whore can do. You bet it’s more than anyone would expect.

“Are you going to kill him?” she asks bluntly.

“Fuck no,” you say, looking up at the ceiling. You can see water stains; it stinks of mildew and mold. You’re loud enough that Aradia can probably hear you, but you don’t care and Damara is too angry to. “I’m going to _negotiate_ with him.”

“So _he_ _’s_ going to kill _you_. Can I watch?”

You scoff, “No one can kill me. I’m too fucking careful.”

She makes a noise low in her throat like she thinks you’re full of shit, then says, “He won’t be going to Cascade tonight, he just wiped 3rd Street clean. He’ll be overseeing shit in the warehouse.”

That’s in the Belt, but you don’t know precisely where. “Address?”

“Find it yourself, cunt,” she says, looking away from you and going back inside the store and slamming the door behind her. You let out a low whistle, slide your hands into your pockets, and get on your way.

 

* * *

 

Aradia Megido turns on her sister once you are gone. With her argument with Vriska humming in her head, little parts of other conversations and absences click in her head, and somehow the world is both clearer and darker for it. “When everyone was being taken, right before the justice building got blown up,” Aradia says, clenching her fists at the side, “you weren’t arrested because of your involvement with Kankri, were you?”

Damara Megido grins.

 

* * *

 

You take the right bus this time. It’s another long ride from Derse to the Belt, but you don’t have much else to do right now, so it’s not too much of an opportunity cost. There’s nothing to do but think, and of course, you can’t think of anything else but Scratch and his pointless mission.

One of your rules used to be not to do deals with gangs; they were much more trouble than they were worth. However, once you’d needed revenge and wanted it fast, so you broke that rule and shook hands with the most dangerous man in all of Canaveral, exchanging one favor for another. For the first time, you weren’t able to follow through on your side of the bargain, and you think about becoming just another victim of the Felt’s brutality.

No. That’s not you. You can get Scratch to realize how dumb it was to make you in charge of finding such a “coveted” artifact that’s very obviously fake, and in your opinion, your part of the deal has been completed to the best of your ability. He can’t fault you for failure when that’s the only result possible, but maybe he will. You’re going to need to be a damn good negotiator—there can be no slip-ups. The longer you think about it, the more paranoid you get, and you drum your fingers on your knee, thinking about the one person you know that could talk her way out of absolutely anything.

About halfway there, a reflection in the window catches your eye. A kid your age is getting on the bus, cane gripped firmly in his hand, and he sits way in the front, humming quietly to himself. Because of your above-average hearing, you can hear the tune—it’s an old nursery rhyme that your mother never sang you, and when you hear it, ice floods your veins.

Even from the back, you know it’s Tavros. He even still has the mohawk, though it’s spikier now, no longer sheared short to his head. His hair has retained its creamy caramel color, and without your permission, your mind conjures up the memory of running your hand across it.

You do not move up to sit with him; for some reason, your legs won’t move. It’s not like you’re the one who was paralyzed, so you _should_ be able to get up and sit next to him, but you remember his determination in your game and how he could win allies by just being kind, his subtle charisma a weapon he didn’t know he had. You remember him saying your name in reverence, trepidation, annoyance.

You remember the exact sound he made when he hit the pavement after falling four floors down. It’s not a noise you’ll ever forget.

Two stops later, he gets off and you can breathe again. He walks slowly, carefully, leaning on his cane heavily but he makes it to the door, thanking the hunk of metal for the ride. You find yourself staring at him as he walks back towards you on the sidewalk, heading to what you know is his apartment, and he glances up at the windows to accidentally meet your gaze. He freezes in place, eyes widening, and you can’t even smirk at him so you just look at him until the bus pulls away.

He was afraid of you.

(You were afraid of him, too. You don’t feel powerful, like you did earlier. You feel very, very small.)

Just fucking look at you, feeling sorry about something. It’s pathetic. What’s done is done; you can’t change the past. Tavros is getting better and hopefully this whole ordeal has made him come out stronger on the other side. Anyway, that’s all you wanted for him. You have absolutely no reason to feel bad or afraid or whatever the feeling your fucking brain is trying to convince you of.

To get your mind off Tavros, you take out your handheld. You’re about ten minutes from the Belt, and dread ferments in your gut as you think of counter-offers to Scratch’s order. You have nothing that equals what he says this device can do. It’s a _fake_ device, so that makes sense, but you can’t just tell someone like Scratch that something doesn’t actually exist.

 _You_ can’t, you think as you open up the Pesterchum app on your tablet. But maybe someone else can.

\--arachnidsGrip  [AG] began pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

AG: Wow, I’m surprised I’m not still 8locked! It’s my lucky day!

\--gallowsCalibrator  [GC] has blocked arachnidsGrip  [AG] \--

You can’t have that. Maybe you should’ve been more tactful with your first message, but you can’t change the past so you’ll just have to do it from you adult account. Despite the greater chance that Lord English will pick up something this way, you’re not worried, since Dr. Ampora probably wouldn’t touch you. He has a soft spot for your mother—a very big soft spot, seeing as he’s been fucking her before and after his partner died.

(You don’t think Eridan knows. He’s not clever enough to know, and for some reason, you don’t want to tell him.)

\--serketVriska [SV] began pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

SV: Come oooooooon, Terezi! Would I 8e messaging you on this account if this weren’t really important? Talk to me!

GC: M4K3 IT QU1CK

SV: Wow, way to be curt!

SV: It’s about Scratch.

\--gallowsCalibrator  [GC]  has blocked serketVriska [SV]--

Fuck! Does she not understand how important it is that you talk? You guess you’ll have to just show up at her apartment, talk to her in person before you’re thrown into the cage with Scratch…

Oh, nevermind.

\--gallowsCalibrator  [GC] began perstering arachnidsGrip [AG] \--

GC: 4R3 YOU FUCK1NG CR4ZY??????

GC: T4LK1NG TO ME 4BOUT TH4T ON YOUR OFF1C14L 4CCOUNT

GC: H4VE YOU LOST YOUR M4RBL3S??

AG: I did for a while, 8ut I promise they’re all back in pl8ce!

AG: I’m out of time. And I need you to help me with this, 8ecause no one else will, and you’re the 8est at negotiation.

GC: H4V3 YOU FORGOTT3N TH4T YOU 4SK3ED M3 4 LONG T1ME 4GO 4ND 1 S41D NO?

GC: WH4T WOULD M4K3 M3 CH4NG3 MY M1ND, 4FT3R OV3R THR33 Y34RS? PLUS 1M NOT STUP1D 3NOUGH TO G3T 1NVOLV3D IN TH1S. ONC3 ITS ACTUALLY FOUND, 1 DONT W4NT 1T TO G3T OUT TH4T 1M TH3 ON3 WHO PUT 1T R1GHT 1N H1S H4NDS.

AG: It doesn’t fucking exist! He can’t get it.

GC: 1T DO3S 3X1ST, 4ND I R3FUS3 TO T3LL YOU HOW 1 KNOW ON TH3 GROUNDS TH4T YOU SHOULDNT KNOW 1N THE F1RST PL4CE! 4ND 1 TOLD YOU 4LL OF TH1S WH3N YOU F1RST 4SKED FOR MY H3LP, SO WHY WOULD YOU TH1NK 1D H3LP YOU NOW?

AG: …

You have to say something that’ll make her come crawling back to you. You need her to know that you want her by your side more than anyone else.

AG: I’m scared of what he’ll do to me.

Got her.

GC: YOU C4NT M4NIPUL4T3 M3 4NYMOR3, VR1SKA. YOUV3 HURT ME 4ND OUR FR13NDS, 1 TOLD YOU IT W4S OV3R, 4ND NOW 3V3N THOUGH H3S PRODD1NG M3 TOO, 1 TH1NK 1 C4N H4NDL3 MY 3ND OF TH1NGS W1THOUT YOU. NO AMOUNT OF OM1NOUS T1CK TOCKS CAN F4ZE M3! 1 W1LL NOT CH4NG3 MY M1ND.

\--gallowsCalibrator  [GC]  ceased pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] \--

You were certain that would work. Completely _fucking_ sure. Why didn’t she come running to you? She would’ve before, because even though she wanted to hate you, she loved you. You were best friends. Teammates. Scourge sisters.

Who the hell has Terezi Pyrope become in the three years you haven’t spoken to her?

She’s been getting notes too, then, like Eridan. Scratch targeted the people that you seemed the closest to, and you remember seeing old tabloid headings that highlighted your relationships with each of them: the love and the hate and the tension. There had once been rumors that you were dating one of them, but they’d tapered out once Eridan “went to Pasadena” and Terezi tried to erase you from her life. Some of them resurged, though, once Eridan was back in your life—you remember a particular headline on this subject a couple of weeks ago that read, VRISKA SERKET PUTS AN OLD IRON IN THE FIRE, SPOTTED ARM-IN-ARM WITH ERIDAN AMPORA. Soon after, you’d read an article on the same site that fucking destroyed him for daring to put brown in his hair. How dare he try to shove his opinions down our throats by simply adding a streak of dark color into his hair! He’s such a dirty sympathizer!

What bullshit.

When you get off the bus, you wander onto the main street that contains the Belt. This district never shuts down, even in the middle of the night, and the groaning of machinery is audible from the sidewalk. The air is thick with the stench of acrid smoke and smog; it’s no wonder so many people wear masks in this sector. Your eyes water, but you ignore it.

The temperature has shot up in the past few minutes, despite the fact it should be cooling at night, and you start to sweat under your loose shirt. Looking back and forth, you pass identical factory after factory, weaving around large trucks and palates. You’ve only passed a couple of warehouses so far and you haven’t seen anyone you recognize from the Felt, so maybe they’re on one of the side streets. It’d make sense to have a gang operation off the main path, anyway.

Turning the corner, you spot something painted onto the building to your left. It’s almost a comic in its execution—on the square metal sheets of the building, three panels are painted. The first shows a swirling vortex of colors, all bleeding together to make a churning rainbow that is almost painful to look at. In the second, black and white have entered the equation in the form of elongated half-circles that scoop up rivers of rainbow, leaving behind blank streaks. The third lacks any color and shows the two halves joined, and now you see it makes a pill. You think you know exactly what it is.

“You get this too, huh sis?”

Jerking and whipping around, you come face-to-face with Gamzee Makara. He’s still holding a paintbrush that drips with purple and he’s grinning, exposing his brilliantly white teeth that are normally hidden by his lips and thick black makeup. His eyes are pits of white and amethyst in the holes around his sockets, and his gaze is fixed on you with intensity you’ve never seen in him before; Makaras are usually dull, zoned out to the world so they can live in their own minds, but this is Gamzee alert and almost manic. His pupils are pinpoints. It makes adrenaline jolt through you. “What are you doing down here?” you question. “The hell are you trying to do?”

He reaches for your face with his paintbrush and you slap his hand, sending the brush sailing through the air. The plastic clatters on the sidewalk and rolls away, stopping a few feet down the street. At first, the rage on his face makes you think he’s going to kill you, right here and now, but then you blink and it’s gone, replaced by mirth. “Oh, Serk,” he says almost fondly, loping over to his brush and picking it up. He inspects the tip and nods slowly. Walking back over to his mural, he finds a spot of yellow in the first panel and paints a smiley face on it. “Aww, just look at that. Don’t it just speak to you?”

“No,” you say flatly. “It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been on Serenity just as long as you have and _I_ definitely like being able to function.”

“Nah, you’ve got it all wrong,” he says quietly, shaking his head slowly. His greasy blond hair flops all over his forehead. “Calisa, Calisa. If she hadn’t died, they’d be controlling us all. CALISA, CALISA!” he shouts, running one of his hands through his hair. It’s the one holding the paintbrush, and he leaves a small streak of purple in his locks. “Come ON, bitch, don’t just do what they tell you, fuckin’ RISE! You and I, we’re better than that, better than THEM. We have a duty to up and fuckin’ hold to our glorious selves and all THIS SHIT does is make us LIVESTOCK. They take in all the color,”” he sounds so sad now, so forlorn, “and will it away, makin’ us EMPTY. I’m not livin’ that way no more.” He shakes his head. “Oh no, oh no.”

 _Oh no_ is fucking right. “You took yourself off Serenity,” you say, feeling pricks of nervousness across your skin. “I would’ve thought your dad would’ve made you stay on, even after they pulled it off the shelves.” Your mother had made you keep taking them.

“He did,” Gamzee laughs, and you take a step back. “Oh he tried to keep me motherfuckin’ drugged, but he can’t hold ME down! I realized it was WRONG! Faith will be my only drug and it will be the most beauteous fuckin’ thing on this Earth! Just come on. Come on back to shore. I’ll show you the way.”

“Why would you do that _here_ ,” you gesture all around you at the Belt, ignoring his maniacal rambling, “of all places?” No one here is on Serenity.

He laughs and shakes his head again. “I thought you’d be motherfuckin’ tired of being wrong, like I was. Like I _am_. But I know someone who’d really benefit from seeing this, and he will. He will.” With that, he fucking _bows_ , shoves his paintbrush in his pocket, and takes a large plastic bag that was leaning up against the building. It’s full of paint tubes. “Wake uh-up,” he says in a singsong voice before walking back the way you came, whistling a tune only he knows.

You stare at the painting for a few more seconds. What kind of buck would work _here_ , of all places? It’s just a factory—one that appears to be shut down, unlike every other one on the street. And sure, people besides bucks develop GPsy, but it’s never _treated_. Gamzee would _have_ to know there’s a highblood here, but who the hell does _he_ know?

Your stomach drops. _Oh_. The same person you’re looking for.

Heading to the other side of the building, you find a side door and attempt to push your way inside. It’s locked, so you huff and walk around back to a loading area. There’s a big, boxy truck that seems decades old and sounds like Eridan’s old stutter, with people unloading box after box. You recognize one of the henchmen they’re handing it off to: Cans. You whistle sharply at him and he pauses, squinting at you. You almost feel the gun being pointed at you from someone who came up from behind, but you don’t tense. “Hey, Cans,” you call, “kick that hunk of meat you call a brain into gear for once, will you? You know why I’m here.”

He nods slightly, and you hear a _click_ as a safety is turned on. Glancing back, you see Fin slide a pistol into his coat. With the immediate threat over with, you approach Cans and see what’s in his box.

It fits his name—the box is full of cans, labeled with various foods. Looking into the factory through the open loading gate, you see that the room contains piles and piles of food, rations that are meant not to expire for years. People are already going hungry down here, and the Felt is making some of them even hungrier. Sure, their presence in certain districts makes it so they’re protected from the police, but no one protects the people from the Felt. They’ll starve with their interference.

Hey, at least your people aren’t the only ones making thumps suffer.

“So where’s your boss?” you question innocently, rocking back on your heels. “We have something very important to discuss.” You say it deliberately, condescendingly; Cans is slow in the head, slow enough to be marked as infertile.

(Though honestly, there doesn’t have to be a lot wrong with a person for them to be sterilized. Just look at you.)

“Back office,” he grunts, then carries his box to join the multitude of others.

You walk past the piles of food and workers, ignoring them as they turn to stare at you. There are four doors in the back, and the first two you open don’t have any people in them, just filing cabinets and old computers. The third has a desk and a man, and though his face is shrouded in shadow, you can make out his bald head and prim, white suit with its green vest—a mockery of an Angel uniform.

“Miss Serket,” he greets impersonally. His legs are crossed at the knee. His hands rest casually in his lap and his shoulders are straight, and you can only see his eyes, the bright lime green piercing straight into your chest. “I’ve been expecting you.”

You don’t allow yourself to take a deep breath or spit curses at him or do anything you really want to do. You just straighten your posture, slide your hands into your pockets, and wipe your face clean of emotion. “…Scratch.”

“Your time is up,” his voice is light, with a hint of disappointment, “and you haven’t paid.”

“I know,” you snap, then catch yourself before you can sound even more defensive. He gave you an impossible job; it’s not your fault you haven’t found it yet. “It can’t be done. It’s fake.”

He _tsk_ s. “Oh, what a shame. I thought you were better than this. I should’ve known you weren’t capable, even with your advantages.”

“No, I am!” you insist. “ _I am!_ You just gave me an impossible errand! Look, if you have more information, just give it to me—”

“What makes you think you deserve it?” he asks, taking on a forlorn tone. “After what you did to poor little Aradia Megido, my relationships with the elder two of the family became strained, and that is a consequence you have not paid for.”

Your irritation is starting to ebb away, as it’s being replaced by the fear you’d told Terezi about earlier. You no longer have to fake it. “It’s not like you can undo gassing people’s houses! What I made you do to Megido is already over with, so you can’t do anything about that! You’ve been withholding shit from me like… like you thought I was _omnipotent_.”

His thin eyebrows, so gray that they’re nearly white, raise. “Who is the omnipotent one here?”

You will not grovel to him. You’re Vriska fucking Serket: you do not stroke the egos of psychopaths for nothing.

(But this isn’t for nothing. Maybe if you do it, he won’t kill you.)

“You are,” you growl through your teeth, looking down at the ground. His shoes are perfectly shined, reflecting the dim light hanging from the ceiling.

Scratch _hmm_ s, a smirk dancing at the edges of his lips— _you want to rip it off with your fucking nails, you_ hate _him_ —and says faintly, “Oh, I will miss this.” More firmly, he says, “Your deadline will not be extended. However, I do believe it would be in your best interests to give Rose Lalonde a visit.”

 

* * *

 

\--gallowsCalibrator [GC]  began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA] \--

GC: YOUV3 B33N G3TT1ING NOT3S FROM SCR4TCH, H4V3NT YOU?

CA: howw the fuck do you knoww that

CA: i thought you wwerent speakin to vvris anymore

GC: OH MR 4MPOR4, YOU KNOW 1V3 4LW4YS H4D MY W4YS >;]

GC: SH3 H4SNT TR13D TO T4LK TO YOU 4BOUT 1T S1NC3 SH3 FOUND OUT, R1GHT?

CA: no its been complete fuckin silence on her end

CA: ter wwhat the hell is goin on

GC: OH MY, TH4T 1S 4 V3RY LO4D3D QU3ST1ON W1TH 4 P4RT1CUL4RLY L3NGTHY 4NSW3R!

GC: W3LL TO ST4RT OUR D1SCUSS1ON ON 4 L1GHT NOT3, DO YOU B3L13V3 1N M4G1C?

CA: wwhat

GC: WH4T 4M 1 S4Y1NG, OF COURS3 YOU DO! YOU US3D TO B3 OBS3SS3D W1TH TH3 DR4CO M4LFOY MOV13S!

CA: shush right fuckin noww pyrope

GC: 4NYW4Y, 3NOUGH 4BOUT TH4T! TH3R3S TH1S M4G1C CU3 B4LL TH4TS A FURTH3ST R1NG L3G3ND 4ND SCR4TCH W4NTS 1T

GC: VR1SK4 OW3D H1M 4 F4VOR SO 4BOUT THR33 Y34RS 4GO, H3 TOLD H3R TO F1ND 1T FOR H1M

GC: H3R D34DL1N3 W4S TH3 4NNOUNC3M3NT OF TH3 P1SC3S PROGR4M

CA: oh

CA: wwell im gonna guess that she couldnt find it and noww that deadline is right around the fuckin corner

GC: PR3C1S3LY!

GC: NOW 1 TH1NK SH3S TRY1NG TO R3N3GOT14T3 H3R CONTR4CT, B3C4US3 SH3 DO3SNT TH1NK 1T 3X1STS, BUT 1 KNOW FOR SUR3 TH4T 1T DO3S!

GC: WH4T DO YOU TH1NK TH4T M34NS, 3R1D4N? HMM >:?

CA: i think it means youvve been hidin it from her

GC: NOT QU1T3! BUT SHOULD 1 R34LLY T3LL YOU? FOR 4LL 1 KNOW, YOUR3 JUST GO1NG TO TURN 4ROUND 4ND T3LL H3R 3V3RYTH1NG 1V3 B33N T3LL1NG YOU!

CA: youvve already said youre awware that wwere not on speakin terms currently

CA: so that should givve you a big fuckin hint about wwhether or not im gonna rat you out to her

CA: wwhy the hell are you evven talkin to me about this anywway wwevve nevver really been friends

GC: 1 THOUGHT YOU M1GHT B3 UP FOR 4 L1TTL3 R3V3NG3! YOUR3 W3LL 4CQU41NT3D W1TH 4 M1SS 4R4D14 M3G1DO, CORR3CT?

CA: wwell i knoww her but im not ovverly fond of her

CA: its her and fef that are buds

CA: wwhat does this havve to do wwith anythin

GC: W3LL YOU S33, Y34RS 4GO, DOC SCR4TCH G4V3 VR1SKA 4 V3RY SP3C14L B4TCH OF N3RV3 G4S SO SH3 COULD FLOOD 4R4D1A’S HOUS3 W1TH 1T

GC: 1 B3L13V3 W3 BOTH KNOW HOW TH4T 3ND3D

CA: oh god

GC: OH GOD 1ND33D! TH4T W4S H3R S1D3 OF TH3 B4RG41N

GC: TH3 CU3 B4LL W4S H1S, 4ND JUST B3C4US3 H3S PROB4BLY GO1NG TO T4K3 VR1SK4 OFF TH3 C4S3, TH4T DO3SN’T M34N 1T’S CLOS3D

GC: H3 W1LL S3ND SOM3ON3 3LS3 4FT3R 1T—SOM3ON3 WHO WON’T F41L H1M, SO 1 JUST W4RN3D TH3 OWN3R OF TH3 OBJ3CT TH4T 4 CH4NG3 1S COM1NG. W3 ST1LL N33D 4NOTH3R L4Y3R OF PROT3CT1ON THOUGH, 4ND TH1S 1S WH3R3 YOU COM3 1N!

CA: wwait just a fuckin second wwhat does this cue ball thing evven DO

CA: it just sounds like something to play pool wwith if you ask me

GC: WH1CH 1S WHY NO ON3 H4S 4SK3D YOU! >:]

CA: wwoww rude

GC: TO T3LL TH3 TRUTH, 1 DO NOT KNOW 3X4CTLY WH4T TH3 CU3 B4LL DO3S! 1 TH1NK 1T H4S SOM3TH1NG TO DO W1TH 1NFORM4T1ON, BUT R34LLY, TH3 ONLY 1MPORT4NT TH1NG 1S TH4T 1T ST4YS W1TH 1TS CURR3NT OWN3R!

CA: are you goin to tell me wwho the owwner is

GC: NOP3!

CA: then wwhy are you wwastin all a my time wwith this poppycock

GC: B3C4US3 YOU 4R3 4N 4NG3L!

CA: holy shit im so impressed wwith your astute powwers of observvation wwhat a fuckin genius you are

CA: your point is

GC: YOU H4V3 4CC3SS TO LORD 3NGL1SH

CA: wwhoa

CA: hold up a sec

CA: just because im an angel doesnt mean im gonna get invvolvved in something that isnt in my domain for YOU

CA: do you understand wwhat fledgling angels like me DO

CA: especially those in my position

GC: 4ND WH4T M1GHT YOUR POS1T1ON B3, HMM?

CA: dont be a smartass you fuckin knoww

GC: UM, 4 SN1P3R?

CA: wwell yes but thats not wwhat im talkin about

CA: do

CA: do you seriously not knoww

GC: W3LL, L4TUL4 TOLD M3 SH3 S4W YOU 1N TH3 FURTH3ST R1NG 4T 4N 3QU4L1TY CLUB M33T1NG, 4ND 1 4SK3D H3R 1F SH3 W4S SUR3 1T W4S YOU B3C4US3 YOU W3R3 NOT TH3 K1ND OF GUY WHO W4S 1NVOLV3D 1N TH4T STUFF, 4ND SH3 TOLD M3 TH4T YOU THR34T3N3D TO K1LL H3R, SO 1 D3C1D3D TH4T Y3S, 1T W4S YOU!

GC: SO 1 GU3SS YOUR “POS1T1ON” YOU S33M SO S3LF-CONC1OUS 4BOUT 1S OF 4 SYMP4TH1Z3R >:?

CA: fuckin hell ter no

CA: i got hurt

CA: im on a desk job right noww

GC: OH

GC: TH3 HE4VY 3MPH4S1S YOU PL4CED ON YOUR 1NJURY M4K3S M3 TH1NK TH1S 1SNT S1MPLY 4 STUBB3D TO3

CA: nope

GC: NO M4TT3R, YOU C4N ST1LL H3LP M3 OUT FROM 4 D3SK

GC: TH4TS 3X4CTLY WH3R3 1 W4NT YOU, 4CTU4LLY!

CA: i cant break into lord english for you to look for wwhoevver the hell scratch is goin to send next if thats wwhat youre gonna ask

GC: WRONG 4G41N!

CA: and evven if i DO decide to help you wwhat the hells in it for me

GC: YOU SOUND L1K3 VR1SK4 >:/

CA: excuse you

CA: ugh just tell me wwhat you wwant and ill try to come up wwith a proper form a payment

GC: 1 W4NT YOU TO COMB THROUGH TH3 D4T4B4S3 4ND S33 1F TH3R3 4R3 4NY R3CORD3D P3ST3RCHUM CONV3RS4T1ONS W1TH ON3 G4RD3NGNOST1C, 4ND 1F THERE 4R3, W1P3 TH3M

CA: you mean jade

GC: !!!

GC: H4S SH3 SPOK3N TO YOU??

CA: no but fef knowws her

CA: wwhats her deal

GC: HON3STLY, 1 DONT KNOW! BUT OUR LOV3LY FR13ND W1TH TH3 CU3 B4LL DO3S, 4ND 4PP4R3NTLY 1T’S V3RY 1MPORT4NT TH4T J4D3 1SN’T SPOTT3D ON OUR N3TWORK

CA: thisll be hard

CA: it takes time and access i dont havve

GC: W3LL 1F YOU S33 4N OPPORTUN1TY, T4K3 1T! TH4T’S 4LL 1 H4V3 TO T3LL YOU FOR NOW, SO G3T TH1S DON3 4ND 1’LL K33P YOU UPD4T3D!

CA: just wwait one fuckin second wwe still havvent discussed wwhats in it for me

GC: YOU’V3 CL41M3D F3F3R1 H4S T4LK3D TO H3R, CORR3CT?

CA: yeah

GC: TH3N 1F YOU DO TH1S, YOU’R3 S4V1NG H3R FROM 3X3CUT1ON 1F J4D3’S PR3SC3NC3 1S D1SCOV3R3D

GC: 1 HOP3 TH1S 1NSP1R3S YOU TO WORK QU1CKLY!

\--gallowsCalibrator [GC]  has ceased pestering caligulasAquarium [CA] \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter marks the end of my backlog. Chapter 20 is half-written, and 21 and 22 have been worked on, but I am about to go from _very busy_ to _incredibly busy_ , since I landed an internship on top of all the school stuff I have to do. I am about 95% certain you will be getting a November update! However, it may be in the latter half of the month, since I will be going home on break and I won't have labs, which means I'll have more time to write. I would like to get it done by the beginning of next month, though! I will try.


	21. XX- 5 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little late, but I'm trying very hard to stay somewhat on schedule! However, I highly doubt my December plan will fall into play--I can probably get Chapter 21 done before finals at the beginning of December, but not 22. The Act 2 finale will probably be done over winter break, and if I can manage to get 21 up sometime during the first week of December, that means I'll post the finale mid-December and do the intermissions within a week since they're done. Woo! Lots of updates in a short period! (I don't really want to space them out much because of reasons that will become clear, which is why the December plan was a thing in the first place.) However, this will mean I'm out of chapters again. I can probably get 23 done since I've already got a big chunk of it written, but otherwise, the only chapter that's touched is the actual finale of the fic. One advantage I have, though, is knowing exactly what will happen in each one--seeing as Act 3 only has eight chapters with _a lot_ going on, I have the ideas; I just need to write them down. One thing with the other two acts is I had to do a lot of filler to get somewhere and I wasn't sure where I was going with some plotlines; I would absolutely love to do a write-up of my main plotpoints and subplots and tell you when I decided to do what, but that'll have to wait for the end of Insurgency when I can't spoil you anymore.
> 
> Also, if you pay a lot of attention to detail, you may have noticed that the chapter titles changed a little! I added roman numerals for the _actual_ chapter numbers, because right now AO3 is one off because of the intermission and since there are two intermissions between Act 2 and Act 3, there will be a lot more disruption! I really wish I could change the chapter numbers AO3 lists but alas, I've tried everything I can think of to no avail.

When the Pisces Program goes public, it is a threat. You don’t think there’s any way your mother could’ve predicted that it would come out at the worst possible time, but honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if she’d somehow figured it out. When people were preparing to rise up and hopefully beginning the tumultuous process of changing things, she of course came out with the biggest reason they should not.

The commercial that displayed the countdown hits zero. The swirling fish fade into the background, and the strange curved H that was once a watermark comes to the forefront, vibrant and fuchsia. Glenda Peixes is abruptly standing there, shadowed by her company logo, and she grins. “Are you ready,” she says, her voice calm but forceful, “for the world to change?”

In that same controlled voice, she explains Pisces in detail that you didn’t get when she’d shattered your dreams of a father. Using stem cells and a new strain of sopor, she could build people from donated clusters of cells and make however many clones she wanted. It’s not quite like you, where your mother’s own egg was fertilized by herself, but somehow it makes people that can function. She brings out models, and they trek onto her television canvas like drones, eyes empty and gaits languid. She pokes and prods at them, showing the diversity she can achieve in all physical traits and the empty obedience exhibited.

And in the sopor, they age a year in a month.

There are no child labor laws anymore—at least, not like there were in the times referred to in some of the Heresies. As soon as these people are functional, they can work, because they are artificial, free from all of Canaveral’s laws by legal loopholes your mother sought out and twisted to her favor, all in preparation for this. You do not like what can happen now because of the multitude of workers she can make.

In her last words, she looks directly at the camera, spreads her arms, and grins. “Don’t ever forget that no matter who you are, you are entirely replaceable now.”

The last time people were pushed down from fear, it was because the Angels started taking family members away as a warning— _stop plotting against us or else._ Attendance of the meetings dropped, and it resulted in the raid of the justice building. You weren’t around for the aftermath of that, and while it drew attention to the cause, it wasn’t the kind of attention Kankri wanted. He tried to handle the publicity afterwards, and even though they had no proof he was there since the cameras were silenced and he was in the middle of the mob, people tried to blame it on him. Somehow, he wasn’t arrested, and he became more recognizable—even more so than he was when he was attending University in the Burbs. Now, people loved him. You’d witnessed the thousands that came to the peaceful protests at the foot of the plateau and the skeptics that came flocking to him at the gala. Kankri Vantas had promises and charisma and ideals that made people want to listen to him.

You don’t know if he can survive this. This wasn’t a threat to take away family members and erase them. This was an underhanded threat of the total wipeout of a group of people—the _majority_ of people.

And they could do it. According to your mother, they _would_ do it.

The realization comes to you later than it should have. You’re washing dishes from dinner when you wonder how the Church will react to your mother’s proclamation and program. She’s always been on good terms with Gareth Makara, but she’s made it known that she doesn’t support religion. Once, years and years ago, you’d been eavesdropping on you and Eridan’s parents and you’d heard your mother say, “If you want to publicly worship a god, then you should worship me.” Is that how she’d like to think of herself, because of her new ability to create people—is she a god now?

That’s not really a question you can answer, but your gut tells you no. She is a _person_.

(But what are you?)

It’s been a little over a week since you learned about your place in the Pisces Program; it’s an issue that’s close enough to your heart that you still feel sickened when you think about it, but you no longer want to gouge out everything of yours that reminds you of her. You do, however, want to hurt _her_ , for what she’s done to you by making you exist and to the Furthest Ring by releasing this program. The demonstration gala won Kankri some buck supporters, just as it was supposed to, but one thing nobody ever wants to admit is that bucks are always _scared_ —whoever decided to accept that there was something _wrong_ with the social order will probably just as soon retract their opinions and be silent again.

And you’re _mad_. What little support you had was hard-won, and it sickens you to have your mother be the one to take a lot of it away. You want to stomp up to the Burbs and yank your trident from the wall and stick her with it, but you can’t; you know how your last visit to her ended.

You do know what you can do right now—you and the Maryam-Vantases are once again running low on food. The rations are smaller than ever and going up to the Burbs supermarket makes you feel _good_ , and you really need to feel good right now. It doesn’t take long for you to make yourself decent and head out the door.

Where there’s normally an electronic advertisement, there’s some text citing that the bus system will be closed today for maintenance. Despite that, you decide you’ll just walk to the elevators; they’re only about two miles from your place if you cut through a section of the Belt to get there. Normally you don’t like to use the shortcut, since the Belt can be kind of sketchy, but since it helps a lot of people in your residential area, you think there’ll be more people around.

Just before you hit the Belt, you pass the Bounty Hunters Guild, where Eridan used to do jobs for quick cash and where Rufioh still works. You think you can see him in there, a broad-shouldered silhouette in the second window working through the blinds, but you can’t be sure. He’d been less present lately, always seeming busy, but Kankri told you he’d taken a step back because of all the positive attention Kankri had been getting after the justice building raid. Kankri’s portion outside got people to rally together; Rufioh’s ended with a death toll. Since the more reckless man had started the whole thing, for months he’d blamed himself for getting people killed. His confidence was steadily leaking back since you’d come back and revealed you and Eridan were alive, but he was still worried about fucking up again. That’s good, you think; he was trying to move too fast.

You were right about there being more people in the Belt—though it’s not a constant stream of walkers, you pass quite a few people on your way through, and there’s a woman in a pretty red dress in front of you and you can hear more footsteps clopping along behind you. However, those aren’t the only people around—you take note of police officers, three total, one leaning on the brick wall of some random factory while two others chat near a patrol car. It’s strange to see so many in one place, especially when they don’t seem to be doing anything. Watching people is supposed to be Lord English’s job.

Oh well, they’ll probably be gone by the time you get back, anyway. The woman in front of you doesn’t seem too tense because of their presence, so you won’t sweat it either, seeing as you have many more things to be worrying about.

Reaching the elevators with no further trouble, you walk right in and ride up. If you hadn’t watched the Pisces Program reveal yourself, you wouldn’t have even known there had been a shift in the power dynamic. Knowing that your mother was sitting somewhere in the Burbs, gloating about what she thinks will be the demise of Kankri’s campaign, was enough to make you feel terrible, and you don’t even think going to get food will make you feel any better. Usually, it gives you a sense of purpose, because you like eating enough food and you like getting your _friends_ enough food, but even as you ride the elevator upward, raid the supermarket, and come back to the Furthest Ring with as much food as you can carry, you still feel somewhat hollow.

After a quarter mile of dragging grocery bags—which you’ve dumped into two very large cloth bags to make the job easier, one thrown over each shoulder—you’re pretty damn tired. You’re strong, stronger than most people who don’t actively try to be buff, but in a situation like this, distance matters more than weight. By the time you hit a mile, your arms are trembling and you’re drenched in sweat, and when you slide down an alley and come out in the Belt to take the shortcut, you huff in frustration and almost drop your load.

The road in front of you is blocked off. There’s a section off to the side where a police officer seems to be waving trucks through, but people are being searched, patted down with batons and bags torn open and rifled through. An officer stares you down until you shuffle into line, and you lean to speak to the man in front of you. “Any idea what all of this is about?”

“My shift manager said some of the factory owners were worried about stealing, so the police decided to do searches,” he explains, glancing back at you to roll his eyes. “What bullshit, right? They’re wasting their time.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding slightly as you reflexively grasp the handles of your bags tighter.

To be fair, you didn’t steal any of this. All of it was paid for. But you _are_ technically barred from the Burbs, and if anyone realizes that you’ve been illegally using the elevators, you could be arrested.

You consider dropping the food and trying to run. You’re small and fast, so as long as they aren’t carrying any long-distance stunners (or actual guns), you could probably outrun them. That would mean leaving the food to rot in the street, and it would just go right back to police officers who don’t need it. You don’t like the sound of that, but it would mean you probably wouldn’t have to deal with these low-ranking cops, who have crappy attitudes and violent predilections.

Or, you could just use your name. Sure, it’d be a blow to your pride. You _hate_ being a Peixes. It’s hard to imagine you could ever hate anything more than that damned name. However, if one of the officers decides to give you trouble, it _does_ carry some weight with it—enough that you can get this food to people you love.

Aww, hell. It’ll hurt, but if it comes to it, you won’t run: you’ll simply say who you are.

“What’s all this?” the officer behind the rickety bag-searching table says as another yanks you to the side and begins patting your down with a baton.

You shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying not to squirm as parts of you are squeezed and prodded, and you say, “I just brought some food down.”

“‘Just’?” she questions, eyebrows raised as she takes out some cans and fruit. An orange rolls out of the bag and hits the ground; you flinch when it hits the pavement. “There’s nothing nonchalant about going where you don’t belong.”

“I’m actually a twelve,” you say sheepishly, keeping all traces of threat out of your tone. Coming from a lot of people, that declaration would be hostile, but seeing as police officers of this class are usually in the four to six range, you’re dealing with people much lower on the GMS than you are, and that should go a long way. “I’m Feferi Peixes. I live down here.”

“Yeah, sure,” she snorts, lifting her eyes towards the sky for a moment. “ID,” she demands a beat later, not openly hostile but firm. A knot twists in your stomach as you hand it over, and the cop patting you down finishes his duty and shoves you back over to the desk. You hold back a glare from the unnecessary roughness and grit your teeth, digging in your skirt pocket and pulling out your thin wallet. You hand over the ID and she scans it into the computer.

A few seconds later, she’s frowning. “You have an elevator ban on record.”

Well, shit.

“It’s a cosmetic ban,” you rush to say. You can feel the eyes of the people in line behind you, burning into your back. “Actually run the scan and you’ll see that I’m allowed access, it just looks like I can’t go up.”

“Why the hell would it be like that?” she asks, but her fingers type away on the keyboard, confirming your story.

“My mother threw a hissy fit,” you say shortly.

The officer leans closer to the screen, and you hear the one who patted you down take a step closer to you. You refuse to look at him. After a moment, the woman’s eyes widen, and she says, “This _was_ a full ban. There are signs of outside influence. You removed it.”

There’s a hand grasping your wrist, and you reflexively try to tug away so you can explain yourself, but then you’re being struck across the face. The pain is sharp and very much present, and it feels like something moves out of line. You land on your hands and knees in the street, liquid filling your mouth and trailing down your chin.

The pain resurges when you spit out a gob of blood and something white. It’s not until your tongue prods a spot of glaring ache in your mouth that you realize you’re down a tooth—the front molar on your upper jaw. It hurts more than you would’ve thought and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, hands curling into fists on the pavement. Trying to breathe hurts and when you reach up to prod your nose, you flinch. _Ow_.

“Officer Regulus, wait a sec,” the cop behind the computer rebukes, sounding bored. You hear more laptop keys clicking as more blood fills your mouth, and you spit again. The motion hurts your face, but it’s not like you’re going to swallow. You feel sick, both with pain and with dread. She continues, “This could’ve happened without Zahhak’s knowledge. I’ll call the district supervisor; he’ll have access to shit we don’t.”

“Why go to all the trouble?” the guy who smashed you in the face with a baton demands. You want to spit blood all over his boots, but you can’t.

“You know why,” she sighs, and a dial tone sounds from her laptop until she clicks a button and it’s switched into her earpiece.

She speaks in a low voice, and you are increasingly surprised by how much you’re bleeding. It hurts all along the side of your face, not just where your tooth came out, and you think about how much dental work costs. To try and regain some dignity, you try to stand up, going slow so they know you’re not a threat, but you still get a boot slammed into the small of your back so you’re pinned to the pavement. Your breath leaves your lungs in a huff and you feel like you’re going to bruise.

After a few minutes, the officer says, “He’s coming,” and then gets the line moving again. The guy with his boot on your back stays there, and you want to move your arms to cushion your head, but you feel like that would be met with more violence so you stay uncomfortable and wait, blood pounding in your head and beginning to build up on the ground from all your spitting.

Seconds before the district supervisor arrives, you realize who it is. This could either go well or poorly.

Cronus stops near your head so you get a nice view of his topsiders. “You called me for this?” he says dully, nudging you in the ribs with his toes.

“ _Really_?” you say, annoyed at his action.

“Quiet,” the female officer says in a reserved tone. “She’s claiming to be Feferi Peixes.”

“It’s not a claim,” Cronus says, snorting. He sounds bored when he orders the officer with the boot on your back to step off, and then he offers you a hand. You almost expect him to jerk it out of the way at the last second and laugh at you, but you tentatively take it and he yanks you up roughly, then lets go as soon as you’re upright.

The woman shrugs. “Okay, fine. She does have an elevator ban, though.”

“Huh,” Cronus says, looking at you with raised eyebrows. “That wasn’t sanctioned, but if it’s there, you might as well keep it.”

“Alright,” she says, typing, and you resist the urge to stomp on Cronus’ foot. “Want to make the arrest yourself, or should I do it?”

Sighing, Cronus shifts his weight impatiently. “Don’t make a fuckin’ arrest—I have to fill out the forms if either of us does it, and I’d rather not touch any paperwork. Just let her go with a warning.”

“What about this?” She gestures to your bag of food.

“Trash it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cronus turns to leave without another glance at you, but you stop him, demanding, “Why did you keep the ban? You _said_ it wasn’t sanctioned.”

“Yeah,” he allows, sliding his hands into his pockets. “But now _I’m_ sanctioning it, since bringing food from up there down here is pretty naughty.” He _tsks_ , and you want to hit him as he spins on his heel and walks away whistling.

“You can go,” the male officer says, his vitriol evident even as he hands your ID back to you. You snatch it. Straightening your skirt and holding a hand to your face, you briskly walk towards home.

As you make your way back through the remainder of the Belt, you can feel people staring at you. Keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead and both hands pressed against your nose, you spit periodically; you think the blood flow coming from your mouth is starting to stop. _Fuck_ Cronus for letting them put on another ban! If he thinks that’ll get you to stay away from his brother, he’s _wrong_! You wish you could go back up to the Burbs and get a healing strip that’d fix your nose in a few days and get another tooth, but _no_ , you’ll probably have to live like this.

Or, you think, you could have Eridan come get you.

You don’t know if he’s walking yet; he’d had some minor surgery done a week ago, so he might not be back up to current-strength yet (you can’t say “full-strength” because right now, that’s limping along with crutches), but you _really_ don’t want to call Meenah. Whatever, you’ll decide when you get back to your apartment, since either one of them could just take their car down the service elevator if they felt like it.

Rufioh is smoking outside the BHG when you pass buy, on break. His eyes widen when he sees you but he still seems to have been expecting you, extinguishing his light on the brick building behind him and pushing off the wall he was leaning against with his foot. “Hey, you don’t look so good,” he says in way of greeting.

No shit. “Yeah, they’re doing checks in the Belt—”

“I know,” he interrupts, carefully taking your wrists and pulling back so he can look at your nose. He grunts in sympathy. “I had a friend of mine down there, watching for trouble. She told me what happened.”

Then why didn’t she _help_ you? “Great. Can I go home now?”

“Home?” he asks, sounding surprised. “You need to get that nose set.”

Sighing sounds a bit more like a whistle than usual. “I don’t care.”

“But I do,” he says, sounding earnest. It’s what makes him similar to Kankri—he cares about people, almost too much. “Come on, we’ll take you to Kankri.”

You don’t really have the energy to fight with him now so you comply, letting him guide you around the back of the BHG to a rusty gate. He unlocks it and goes into the tiny parking lot to drag out a rusty, duct taped dirt bike. “Is it going to fall apart?” you ask dubiously as he mounts it.

“Probably not,” he says, patting the seat behind him. “Hold on to me.”

“I’ll get your blood on your shirt,” you say as you awkwardly hop onto the bike.

He grins. “Blood adds character. Now come one.”

Reluctantly, you wrap your arms around his chest. It’s very rare for someone to have a form of transportation down here, even something that’s in as bad of shape as Rufioh’s, but you’re curious. When he stops at the hospital and secures it to a lamppost with a heavy metal chain, you ask, “Where’d you get this thing?”

“Horuss helped me build it,” he says, patting the seat fondly. “It was, ah… pretty helpful, after Tavros’ leg shit. I street raced on it for a little while, too. Fun stuff.”

“Horuss Zahhak?” you ask, blinking hard.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He starts towards the ER entrance, and you follow. “We’re… we’re sort of a thing.”

“‘A thing,’” you quote.

“Okay, time to fill out forms,” he changes subjects, walking in through the sliding doors and rubbing his hands together. “Wait here,” he directs, pointing at a chair; for once, the ER isn’t full to bursting. He talks to the woman at the counter then comes back over to you with a clipboard, a pen, and some tissues. “Can I see your ID?” he asks as he passes you the tissues. “I’ll fill this out while you go clean up.”

You pass him your whole wallet as you shuffle off to the same bathroom where Eridan had washed out his eyes after getting lye in them, years ago. Your nose had stopped bleeding at some point on the back of Rufioh’s bike, so now you just have to wipe away the blood that had gathered on your face and hands and snaked down your arms. The hole from your missing tooth still aches and you still taste the metallic blood, so before tackling your messy face, you rise your mouth out a few times. Touching any area around your nose hurts like hell and you’re already starting to get shadowy bruises under your eyes, plus seeing your nose listing slightly to the left makes you feel ill.

Once you’re as clean as you can be, you walk back out and sit down next to Rufioh. He makes conversation for a good hour before a nurse calls out your waiting number; once you make it over to him, Rufioh immediately says, “We’re here for Dr. Vantas.”

“I know,” he says, opening one of the swinging doors that leads deeper into the hospital. “Follow me.”

You’re led to an empty examination room, where Kankri is leaning against the patient bed with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sipping on coffee. He puts it down on the rickety-looking table in the corner the second he sees you and says, “That shirt of yours is very bloody. Hold on, I’ll get you something else.”

He slips out before you can speak and comes back a minute later with one of his sweaters—an ashy gray knit that feels scratchy as you pull it on, but it’s still somehow comfy, coming down to almost mid-thigh on you. Kankri helps you get it on without rubbing it against your nose, and you’re grateful for that. “What happened?” he asks as he digs in a cabinet. He pulls out some latex gloves and puts them on.

“Some mean cops were checking the Belt and they realized I had an elevator ban,” you say.

Kankri hands a wad of cotton to Rufioh. “Why would that matter?” he asks.

“I had Burbs food with me,” you admit.

Realization breaks out on his face and he looks _sad_. “Oh, Feferi,” he sighs, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I… I apologize, I didn’t think you were in any danger—”

“I shouldn’t have been!” you exclaim. “It was _stupid_! My mother shouldn’t have the power to put bans on people’s records, and stupid _Cronus_ should’ve lifted the ban when he got there but he _didn’t_ because he doesn’t like me being around Eridan. They just _suck_! Everyone sucks!”

You huff after your outburst, and Kankri puts a hand on your head, then moves to help you hop up onto the examination table. He has large hands and they’re warm, even through the gloves. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse. It’s just your nose, correct?”

“I also lost a tooth,” you sulk.

His eyebrows raise. “Do you think your jaw could be broken?”

Shaking your head, you say, “It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Kankri sucks in a breath through his teeth, then directs Rufioh, “Hold the cotton under her nose. I don’t think she’ll bleed much, but I like that sweater. Are you ready, Feferi?”

“Yeah,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut and fisting your hands in the hem of Kankri’s sweater.

“I’ll go on three,” he says in an even voice. “One—”

There’s a crack and the word goes white with pain, but then you can breathe through your nose again. Tears leak out, but it doesn’t really feel like you’re crying. As soon as you can uncurl your fingers, you take the cotton from Rufioh and throw it away; you didn’t bleed much, like Kankri had said. “Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Thanks.”

He checks you for a concussion, which you do not have, then he leads you and Rufioh to the front of the hospital. “Finalize your payment there,” he says, nodding at the desk upfront, and you go. Rufioh doesn’t follow immediately, and as you hand over your card to the woman at the desk and sign the receipt, you can hear the two of them talking. Their tones are hushed like they don’t want you to overhear, but the area is currently empty and quiet, plus the halls are built so noise travels.

“Please shut your mouth, Rufioh, I know what you’re going to say. I know this shouldn’t happen. I _know_. But if you use a dear friend of mine to further your own agenda in my own goddamn hospital, _so help me God_ , you’ll regret it.”

“No. God, no. I didn’t take her to you to wave her in your face, do you think I’m that much of an ass?”

“I… I don’t. I’m sorry. I’ve just had a rough day.”

Rufioh snorts. You can practically see his nose ring shift even though you’re pretending to read the doctor-patient confidentiality statement on the form you’re about to sign. “More like a rough life. Look, thanks for doing this on your break, I know you’re swamped—”

“Don’t thank me. Not for this.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever. You deserve it but hey, here I am, holding up my hands in surrender. When do you get off?”

Kankri sighs. “In two hours.”

“Come get a drink with me. I’ll be like old times before we were constantly at each other’s throats, and it’ll take some of the edge off. You’re a pretty stressed-out guy. You deserve a break, too.”

“I don’t drink. You know that.”

“Fine, then get a soda or something. Splurge.”

“I… really can’t, Rufioh. I already promised Mituna I’d help him with something.”

“You don’t have to save everyone, you know,” Rufioh says, his voice almost tender. Reverent. “I know we both like to think we can be the bold rescuers of the Furthest Ring, but we’re just people, bro. Take it easy.”

Glancing over, you see Rufioh clap Kankri on the shoulder before he comes loping over to you. Kankri practically darts further into the hospital, away from you both. “Ready?” Rufioh asks.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Once you’ve thanked Rufioh for all he’s done and you’re back at the apartment, you use your tablet to make an emergency dental appointment in the Burbs for two hours from now. Releasing a slow breath, you go curl up in the scratchy sheets of your bed and pull up Pesterchum to message Eridan. He’s currently marked as “away”, so you tell him to respond when he can and go to lie down. It only takes five minutes for your tablet to ping.

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] began pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--

CA: hey wwhats up

CC: I )(ave a dentist appointment in t)(e Burbs, can you come get me from the apartment?

CA: im wworkin desk right noww and get off in half an hour can you wwait till then

CC: Yep, see you! T)(anks!

\--cuttlefishCuller  [CC]  ceased pestering caligulasAquarium  [CA]\--

You totally flaked out on telling him what happened. He’s at work, so he has to at least be mobile again, plus he didn’t question why you couldn’t just come up yourself so he must be busy with something. Sighing, you put your tablet down and take off Kanrki’s sweater, folding it and putting it on top of your dresser to bring upstairs later. You change out of your blood-stained shirt into something comfier then curl up on your bed. You must drift for a while, because you wake up to lots of pinging coming from your tablet. Groggily, you take your tablet and see that Eridan has left you seven messages saying that he’s downstairs in his dad’s car. Stumbling out of bed and pulling on your flats, you grab your wallet and head outside.

The car is out front, idling in the street, and you get in and gingerly sit down on the seat across from Eridan. He taps “dentist” on the control panel and the car immediately starts forward, leaving you with nothing to do but face him.

When you make eye contact, you notice that he’s still in his Angel uniform; he didn’t even change before coming down. It’s still jarring to see him in the all-white getup, with his hair parted and sprayed back. He looks horrified, eyes wide and face beginning to flush with wrath, and he demands, “Fef, what happened to you? Who did it?” The _I’ll kill them_ is silent.

You know he’ll push and push until he gets an explanation out of you, so you relent and answer, “I got caught smuggling food.” Your voice is small.

His expression softens, because even though the buck part of his brain that’s resurfacing doesn’t understand your desire to help those lesser, you know he’s been worried about how your friends are faring. “Where? How?”

“They were doing random searches near the Belt,” you tell him. “They found Burbs food in my bag and ran my ID. I tried to tell them the elevator ban was just something my mother did to spite me but they wouldn’t believe me.”

You see the rage ignite in his eyes, and some damaged part of you likes seeing him angry on your behalf. “The Belt is Cronus’ division.”

“He showed up,” you say, cupping your elbows. “He’s the one who made the cop take his boot off my back, but he…” You hesitate before telling him, because Eridan and Cronus have been getting along a bit better lately and you don’t want to destroy that relationship, but you don’t want to lie to him either. “He made them reinstate the ban, but he said they couldn’t arrest me. I got off with a warning.”

The scowl is deep on his face, making it look ugly because hate looks dreadful on everyone. You don’t tell him to calm down, but he seems to figure out on his own that he needs to take some deep breaths and relax, because that’s what he does.

Once some of the tension is gone from his shoulders and his grimace has morphed into a displeased line, he asks, “What’s the damage? Why’d they hurt you?”

You shrug. “Nothing that won’t heal within a few days.” _Unlike yours._ “I guess I made some sudden movements that _somebody_ didn’t like.” You roll your eyes.

“Why are we going to the dentist’s?”

“…I got a tooth knocked out.”

“Oh, God,” he says, dismay scrunching up his features. “Come here.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt just as the car turns, so you practically fall into his lap. He makes a pained grunt and you apologize, but he assures you it didn’t really hurt. The sudden redness in his cheeks outs him as a liar. Scooching off, you don’t bother re-buckling and instead wrap your arms around him and rest your good cheek on his shoulder.

“Can you stay over?” he asks, moving one of his arms around your waist. “Dad won’t be back until late so you won’t even have to see him.”

When you nod into his shoulder, he leans down and kisses your forehead right on your hairline. It makes your face heat up, but since you’re looking away from him, he can’t see that. It’s always been hard to admit that during times like these, Eridan Ampora gives you butterflies in your stomach. He’s tender and affectionate and you’d have to be blind and retarded not to see the love in his eyes or feel it in his touches, and it usually makes a bit of guilt stir in your chest because he loves you _all_ the time and you only return that _some_ of the time, but now all you feel is warmth.

Before arriving at the dentist, you have him stop at the drug store; he reroutes the car and waits while you go inside. Gathering what you need, you checkout then head into the drugstore’s bathroom to fix yourself up. Your small bag of purchases only contains one box of nanogenerative pads, for breaks and bruises, and some pain meds. You fold a bone pad over your swollen nose, making sure it’s a long enough strip to also cover the bruising under your eyes, and you swallow a capsule dry, then cup your hands under the sink to get a few swallows of water. Hopefully that’ll take care of the dull pain that occurs when you speak.

Since the drugstore is on the outskirts of the medicinal district, it doesn’t take long to drive to the dental wing of the hospital. Eridan comes inside with you this time, looking more awkward on his crutches than he had in days prior; you do the math in your head and figure out that he last had a fentanyl patch yesterday. Now that you’re paying attention, he’s in obvious pain when he moves, so they must lose their effect quickly.

“How’s your fentanyl thing going?” you ask once your checked in and seated in the waiting room.

“Shh!” he hisses harshly, seemingly on reflex, then looks down at his feet. Under his breath, he demands, “Can we not talk about this in public?”

“No one’s listening to us,” you say. “Come on, that just makes me think it’s going terribly.”

“Well at least I’m _doing it_ , so far,” he sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck gawkily. “It’s just… not a lot of fun. I can barely sleep, I’m constantly cold, and once I get a few days out it’s almost impossible to move because it hurts so much. And I’ve done some research and that last part isn’t just from the injury, this shit _hurts_ to get taken off and that’s so great for me, right?” He huffs, sliding down in his seat.

“That sounds awful,” you sympathize, laying a hand on his knee and squeezing lightly. “Keep at this and it’ll be over soon, okay? Don’t jump back on the bandwagon just because it sucks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I know. Kank even sent me a list of alternate drugs I can get over-the-counter up here and I’ll try one of them once my last patch wears off, but…” He places his hand over yours. “It just feels like I’m gonna be fuckin’ broken forever.”

You don’t get a chance to respond to that, as you’re called in for your implant and crown. You’re told it will take a couple of hours so they knock you out for it, and when you wake up, you’re very lethargic and your mouth is numb. Your new tooth is indistinguishable from the rest, looking completely natural, and you pay for the procedure and get some special mouthwash to help with healing before going to find Eridan.

He’s still in the waiting room, wide awake—he’s watching something on his tablet, fidgeting with one of the rings on his fingers. His eyes dart to yours when you enter, and you nod at him; he gets up, secures his crutches, and you move past him to hold the door.

When you get to his penthouse, his dad is out, just like Eridan promised. He leads you straight to his room and turns on a movie. You doze off multiple times in under two hours so he puts the volume on low and takes some sleep medication, curling up with you under the sheets. His skin is clammy but you’ve been feeling so _alone_ lately, and this helps. Eridan makes you feel angry and stubborn and loved and alive, and you don’t know what you’re going to do on the day he decides to put his true feelings on the table; despite having known for years that he’s in love with you, you’re still not sure whether or not you’re in love with him.

Selfishly, you hope he stays a coward. This is too nice for you to pass up.

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, something is off. Flopping your arm into the space next to you, you discover Eridan is no longer in bed. Blearily, you push yourself onto your elbows; your mouth starts to throb as you do so, and you taste the copper tang of blood but don’t think you’re actually bleeding. After blinking heavily a few times, you realize what woke you—the door to Eridan’s room has been thrown open, and you can hear someone throwing up down the hall.

A quick tablet check shows you that it’s only midnight. Eridan’s father still might not be home (late nights for Ampora senior means at least one in the morning), but either way you have no reservations in leaving the room and leaning against the bathroom door to listen in. The light’s not on but the door is locked; more sickly noises confirm any lingering suspicions you had. “Eridan?” you call, trying to keep your voice somewhat low just in case Seymour _is_ home. “Can you let me in?”

“No.” His voice sounds labored. “No, ‘m fine.”

“Eridan Ampora, you _will_ unlock this door before I kick it down!”

He pukes again, and you wait. After a few seconds of silence, the door unlocks, and you enter as he shuffles back to the toilet and starts dry-heaving.

You almost wish he didn’t let you in. It’s an awful sight and it smells terrible in here, but you steel yourself and kneel down next to him, rubbing his back and leaning forward to see his face. You have just enough time to see that he’s redder than a stoplight and there are tears streaming down his face before he snarls, “Don’t look a—!” then breaks into a coughing fit.

This continues to the point where it sounds like he’s desperate for air, but then he stops and gasps in breaths, falling on his ass and squeezing his eyes shut. Covering his face with his hands, he struggles to get ahold of himself for a few minutes. After flushing the toilet a couple of times, you just wait, crossing your legs under you, suddenly aware of how cold the bathroom tiles are.

Once he seems to be stable, you get up and dig in the linen closet for a washcloth. You douse it in warm water and offer it to him; he wipes the sweat and residue from his face before tossing it into the shower. His voice is gruff when he says, “Help me up,” not meeting your gaze.

You offer him both hands and get him standing, then you loop one of his arms over your shoulders so he can lean. He limps the two steps to the sink and rinses his mouth out a few times with water, then borrows your mouthwash. After a slow trek back to his room, you lower him onto the bed before straightening and putting your hands on your hips. “You’re not okay.”

“No shit,” he says, monotone. Then he sighs, burying his hands in his hair, and says, “It’s from withdrawal. I feel nauseous a lot but that’s only the second time I… y’know. Threw up. ‘m sorry.”

 _God, you’re a mess,_ you don’t say. Most people are messes. Your best friend is just a particularly big one. “Don’t be sorry, Eridan,” you tell him, trying to soften your tone. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for unless you’re lying to me again.”

“I’m not.” He sounds hopeless, but you think he’s telling the truth.

“Okay.” Pursing your lips, you get back into bed, feeling wide awake. Eridan is obviously amped up as well, but neither of you speak. You can’t stop thinking—about today, about him. Though you’ll be back to the top of your game in less than a week, with each passing day, you think Eridan has worse and worse chances of making a full recovery. You feel like he’s beginning to realize that too, and that can’t be good for his psyche.

But then again, if his issues persist, then they’ll probably revoke his Angelhood. Since he never got the omnichip and his dad runs the operation, you think that means there’s a decent chance of him getting out of this alive, and even though you know he hates the way he is now, it makes you _hope_.

If he loses his position, he can finally come back down with you.

It’s not an entirely selfish desire, you think. Eridan has told you he doesn’t want to be in the Angels anymore, and you want to shake him for not backing out while he still could, but the realization didn’t come easily to him—it came through a devastating combination of terror and giving up. Lately, he’s been disheartened and irritable and almost subdued, and you know he’s been doing better since going on Serenity again, but he’s still off-whack and you wish you could fix him.

You’re thinking so hard that you almost don’t notice him reach out. He gets a fistful of your hair and runs his fingers through it; it’s still pretty tangled, but since it’s so much shorter, there’s a lot less of it to go through before Eridan’s hand is out of the mess. “I noticed earlier, so don’t think I’m just oblivious, but you cut your hair.”

He can’t see your face go red in the dark. “Yeah.”

“I like it,” he says, combing his fingers through it again, “but it’s very… different for you. Why’d you do it?”

“Do I have to have a reason?” you deflect, and he pokes your cheek. Deflating, you say, “Fine. I just… hated looking like my mother, and with Pisces going public, I wanted a change.” That sounds saner than what actually happened, but you did message Eridan to tell him what your mother told you in her office, so he’s in the loop. You didn’t, however, include a selfie in your explanation, so the hair is new to him.

“You’re nothing like her,” he says simply. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

You close your eyes as his fingers continue carding through your hair. “It’s still nice to hear.”

He makes a small sound at the back of his throat, and you adjust your position slightly so it’s easier for him to reach you. He still sounded pretty awake but you’re starting to get drowsy again, so it’s no surprise to you that you soon drift off, his hand still in your hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A cloud stole across the sky_   
>  _The first of many to come by_   
>  _A storm is brewing in the east_   
>  _It is not safe for man or beast_
> 
> _As clouds join the first to come_  
>  _The wind picks up, it's just begun_  
>  _The sky darkens, lightning strikes_  
>  _This stirs the animals into flight_
> 
> _The scent of rain fills up the wind_  
>  _The turbulence will soon begin_  
>  _The animals seek shelter quick_  
>  _The air is heavy and so thick_
> 
> \--Andy Stephenson, "A Storm is Coming"


	22. XXI- 1 Day

The first thing you see is blood on the floor.

It starts at the tip of your boot—a long streak of crimson, curving and arching away from your foot towards the center of the hologenerator. When you look out at the room, you realize what the outside panel had been showing you was indeed true: all of the walls in the room had been ordered down so they’re sunken into the floor, making it a wide open cube with the ceiling stretching stories above you as the outer walls push on and on. It’s actually a smaller space than you would’ve imagined it, but that makes sense; you _are_ inside of a building. The blood trail is elegant, purposeful, as if someone used a brush to paint it, and your eyes follow it to another branch. The interconnectedness of the lines almost makes it seem like a web, but there is a lump at the end that seems so small.

He is in an Angel uniform.

Without stepping on the blood, you lean your crutches against the wall and slide against it to get around the beginning of the mess, and then you walk carefully to the body in the center. There is more blood on the other side of him, a seemingly perfect mirror of the swirls on his left. He is lying peacefully on his back, hands folded on his chest. There is no sign of tension in his shoulders or struggle in his posture—he has been laid out like this, uniform pristine and expression serene. Well, except for his eyes. They have been gouged out.

Raphael Abraxas lies dead, framed by bloody angel wings.

You back up, smacking against the wall and sliding down to sit. “Dad!” you find yourself calling, like he can hear you in this locked, soundproof room; you don’t know what else to do. “ _Dad!_ ”

Tiring of that quickly, the panic starts to set in, and you find yourself looking all over the place, trying to see what killed him. There are no holes in his clothes from bullets or slices from knives. He does not appear to have been strangled, and from the lack of blood on his face, you think his eyes were removed post-mortem. _The blood,_ you remember, the blood—where did it come from, if not from him?

As your eyes rove his form, you zero in on the tread of his right boot, facing towards you. There is a sign that you have come to recognize, staring at you.

:o)

Just like that, you’re scrambling up and out of the room, ignoring the ache of your legs and the subtle tugs of the cuts, still scabbed from surgery. There is no one in the gym, but you know where to go. Your father in his office, and his eyes snap to you when you enter. There is a rebuke on his lips, because you just barged in, but before he can say anything, you declare, “Abraxas is dead.”

He gets up and follows you; you both walk quickly, anxiety making the pain in your legs bearable. You bring him to the hologenerator, and he takes out his tablet to radio the person on duty in the security room and yell, because how was this not noticed before? _There was a block on the cameras, sir,_ the man on guard says. _I didn’t catch it_.

That man will be executed by sundown.

Your father snarls, throwing his tablet to the ground; the screen cracks. No one should’ve been able to get in. _Gamzee Makara_ shouldn’t have been able to get in. “I know who did this,” you tell him.

“So do I,” he says monotonously, his voice mismatched from the hand fisted in his hair and the unnerved look in his eyes. He turns on his heel and strides from the room, using the panel outside to make the hologenerator go on a cleaning cycle. It’ll wash away the blood and make sure that a symbol doesn’t make it out of the room. Before you can ask him how he knows, he snaps, “Go home,” and leaves you in the dust.

Grabbing your crutches, you head to the elevator and exit the building. You do not go “home”.

You are the only one in the plateau elevator, heading down to the Furthest Ring. You have a few minutes to stand by yourself, hands and knees shaking while feeling incredibly watched. Eyes frantically darting around the small space, you see the exit hatch in the ceiling, the emergency call button, a small screen that tracks your progress down. You also see a piece of paper, folded over the metal bar perpendicular to the one you’re leaning against and gripping hard. Of course it’s blank, but not really. Crumpling it up, you shove it in your pocket, because it will just say _tick tock_ again and you don’t want to go to Cascade. Not now, not after what Gamzee has done.

But you have to know for sure.

Navigating the Furthest Ring on crutches was hard the first time. It’s even worse the second time, but it’s still infinitely better than being seen with them in the Burbs. You have to use your debit card on the bus, since you no longer have a pass, and there’s a stop just a block down from Cascade. The first thing you do when you enter is check the bar for Gamzee. He’s not there, and neither is Kurloz, so you’re safe enough here.

As long as Scratch isn’t in, that is.

Leaning against an empty booth, you take out the note and are astonished for the second time today.

HAA HAA

HEE HEE

HOO HOO!

You do not like this. You do not like this at all.

“Eridan?”

You nearly jump out of your skin as a hand touches your elbow. Meulin Leijon stares at you and you stare at her. She reads the note in your hand before you can crunch it up and shove it back in your pocket. Once you no longer feel like fighting her from adrenaline, you manage to put the note away and face her like an actual person. “Hey,” you say. Your voice is hoarse.

She’s sitting in the booth behind the one you’re leaning on, and she nods her head, gesturing for you to sit across from her. Clenching your jaw, you do, still keeping an eye out for either of the Makaras or any of the Felt. “What are you doing here?” you ask.

It’s only now that you realize it looks like she’s been crying; there are bits of mascara dotted under her eyes. The sides of her mouth quirk up, but it’s not really a smile. “I’m meeting Kurloz. Or at least, I’m supposed to be. You?”

“Reading,” you say. She understands. “I really should be going.”

“Don’t,” she says quickly. At first, you’re suspicious that she’s just keeping you here so Kurloz can see you and kill you, just like Gamzee killed Abraxas, but he has no _real_ reason to think badly of you and you know you’re just being paranoid. “I…” She kneads the small purse clutched in her hands. “I just want to talk to someone.”

“Then talk,” you say simply. You’re not sure if you’re ready to face Fef yet, anyway. You need a clearer head for that.

She sighs, looking down at the grainy wood of the table. “Have you ever loved someone and hated them at the same time?”

“Yes,” you say automatically.

Her eyes dart to yours; she looks surprised. For the first time, you notice that her pupils are vertical slits, like a cat’s. You remember that she’s a level six—they’re infamous for their animalistic gene splicing—but as far as you remember, Nepeta’s aren’t like that. “What did you do?” she asks quietly.

You swallow, finding yourself unable to look away. There’s something about her strange eyes that are hypnotizing. “I…” You swallow. “She nearly strangled me because I said the words _tick tock_ in a sentence, so I haven’t spoken to her in a while.”

For some reason, this makes her giggle. You can’t help but wonder if she’s _actually_ Felt, and she knows something that you don’t, but then she says, “I broke up with Kurloz,” and her tone is still bubbly.

“Then why are you here to talk to him?” you question.

Before she can answer, a server comes by, putting down a tea cup in front of Meulin. “Thank you,” she says with that same dreamy quality she’d spoken to you with before, back when she gave you the information chip, and then her attention returns to you.

The server asks you, “Want anything?”

“No,” you reply without looking at him. He shrugs and walks away.

Meulin sighs, dragging her finger around the rim of her mug. “I need him to know I’m done, all the way.”

You wish you could tell your father that, but you refrain from letting her know. “What about Kankri?” you say.

If it’s possible, she gets even sadder. “What _about_ Kankri?”

“He…” You sigh harshly, waving your hand like you’re searching for something in the air. Her eyebrows shoot up. “You know.”

“Do you really think he’d still go for it?” she says, propping her chin on her hand. She sounds very bitter. “Even after I’ve been sullied by a Makara?”

“I do.”

She laughs again. “I wish that made everything easier.”

You understand the sentiment. “What happened, with you and Kankri?” you ask, very aware that you hardly know this girl and you’re overstepping, but she asked you a personal question first so you think that gives you free reign. “You seemed to be, like… in the middle of the entire thing, with Kankri and Porrim and Mituna and them. But then I hear you’re running around with a Makara and you stopped showing up to the meetings as much. What gives?”

She glances down at the table, looking ashamed. “I just… felt like I couldn’t keep up with all of them, you know? They had voices and ideas and I was just along for the ride. I agreed with them, definitely, but I didn’t really have much to offer. So I thought…” She seems nervous now, glancing over her shoulder and looking around. Turning back to you, seeming calmer, she continues, “I thought if I dated Kurloz—he came into the shop I work in sometimes, and he seemed interested—then maybe I could get some worthwhile information. It was like espionage! But then, he just…” Meulin chews at her lip. “Ended up being more than I could handle. And now it’s like I can’t get him out of my head, and I hate that he’s there, but there’s nothing I can do about it until I tell him it’s really done. Then I can, I don’t know, try to make it how things used to be. I still feel like I have to _do_ something.”

“Well, let me know how the hell you figure out how to push this whole thing along, because I’d like to know too,” you say with a snort. “They’re slower than the fucking grocer’s on rations day.” Glancing at the door, you see that Kurloz still hasn’t arrived, so you figure you’ve spent enough time here. “I should probably go. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

“Is there?” she asks, calling you bluff and tilting her head to the side. Though you don’t show it, your stomach drops, but the feeling evaporates when she smiles. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Farewell.”

“Good luck,” you tell her, sliding out of the booth. Settling onto your crutches, you head back outside.

It’s shockingly bright, even though you were only outside a few minutes ago. Sunlight glares against your computer glasses, and you head back to the bus stop, taking the one that brings you as close as you can get to Fef’s apartment. The stairs hurt, but not as much as they did last time, so you can manage decently on your own. She doesn’t answer when you knock, and the door is locked—you’d be scared if it weren’t. You don’t like not knowing where she is so soon after she was beaten in the fucking street, so you get a little more panicky. Today has given you about a billion reasons to worry, so what’s one more?

Karkat is the only one around upstairs. “Do you know where Fef is?” you ask immediately.

He rakes a hand through his hair; you think he needs to get it cut before it starts getting matted. The coarse, black strands are starting to frizz up and stick out, like he hasn’t combed it in a few days. “She said she was going on a dive at breakfast this morning, calm your fucking tits.”

You sigh in relief, closing your eyes. When you open them, he’s raised a quizzical eyebrow at you, and you ask quietly, “Can I stay?”

“I’m doing some coding work,” he says, stepping aside to let you in anyway. He shuts the door behind you, bringing you back to his and Kankri’s shared bedroom. “I guess you can hang, though. It’s good to see you, dude, even if you came just so you wouldn’t have a conniption looking for Feferi.”

He lets you sit on his bed, and you watch him as he works. This goes on for about half an hour, and he doesn’t even ramble at you as he codes like he normally would, so you just sit in silence. You focus on him so you don’t have to think about anything else.

After he hits enter on a particularly hefty sequence, he says, “Alright, what is it?” Pushing away from his desk, he turns to face you. “You’re so fucking quiet that my ears are bleeding.”

Sighing, you grab your ankles. You must look pretty damn petulant, curled into a little ball with your chin perched on your knees. “My mentor is dead. Murdered.”

Kar’s eyes widen. “Well shit,” he says. “That… that’s terrible, dude. I’m sorry.”

You shrug slightly, not meeting his gaze. “He’d kinda been a dick to me since I got back, but when I was younger, he was alright. Stopped my dad from doing stupid shit to me. He was high-ranked and I’m not all that excited to see what happens now, because he got murdered in the middle of the fuckin’ headquarters—” You cut yourself off, blinking hard and letting your eyes flit to his. “Kar, you can’t tell _anyone_ about this,” you say rapidly, running a hand through your hair.

“Who the fuck would I tell?” he questions, snorting.

“This isn’t a joke!” you snap. “That was fuckin’ Angel business I just blurted out and you can’t tell a _soul_ —”

“I get it, okay?” He rolls his eyes. “Now keep talking, you melodramatic fuckwad, you can trust me.”

Letting out a breath, you continue, “It was. Rough, I guess. I found him. Makara just… painted around him with blood, it was so fucked up.”

“Makara?” Kar asks, raising his eyebrows.

“ _Gamzee_.” The name is a snarl. “I thought he was okay, y’know? He was making weird graffiti stuff and I still don’t know why the hell he was bothering, and he started giving me drugs that made me feel _alive_ again but according to Kankri are _terrible_ for me, and I guess… I thought…”

“He just never seemed like a threat,” Kar summarizes.

“Yeah.” You pause, brows drawing together, before you question, “Have you met him?”

“He’s been to a couple of meetings,” he replies. “Showed up stoned out of his mind. I talked to him one day when I was pissed at Kankri, and he was annoying but not a shitty dude.”

Pouting a bit, you sulk, “Well he _does_ actually suck, I promise.” Kar shrugs awkwardly and goes back to his coding.

In a couple of hours, you decide to check upstairs again for Fef even though you never heard her come home. There’s still no answer when you knock, so when your gut tells you to go back to work, you do.

Settling in at your desk, you take your backpack out of a drawer and put it up against the side paneling. You’d forgotten it a couple of days ago and it has some dirty clothes, medication, and other important stuff in it, so you really should take it with you when you go home later. Wanting to keep your mind off the murder that happened a few floors away, you pull up some paperwork and get to processing.

It’s dark by the time your phone vibrates with a Pesterchum message from Fef. She must already be at Kankri’s meeting, given the time, so Kar has probably told her that you were looking for her earlier.

\--cuttlefishCuller [CC]  began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA] \--

CC: Gamzee’s )(-ER----E!

CC: At t)(e meeting! We’re at Derse tonig)(t.

CA: WWHAT

CA: are you okay

CA: howw do you evven knoww thats somethin id wanna knoww

CC: Karkat told me w)(at )(appened earlier, and before you get mad at )(im for spilling, )(e knew you were looking for me to tell anyway! But Gamzee is )(ere.

CC: And don’t you DAR--------E sic t)(e Angels on us, -Eridan! We’re not )(arboring )(im or anyt)(ing. )(e’s just )(-ER-E and I t)(oug)(t you’d want to know.

CA: i wwont call in the cavvalry alright? god

CA: thanks for tellin me

CA: ill be there soon

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--

The nerve. The bloody _nerve_ of him! He’s drawing you out, you know it; he doesn’t think you’d have the gall to take him in during a meeting. Boy, was he wrong! You’ll show him, you fuckin’ _will_ —

As you get up from your desk, your knees protest and you almost sit back down; you have to brace yourself on the desk with your hands to even get close to standing. Belatedly, you remember it’s your day for a patch, so you dig in the backpack next to your computer and pull out the pack. Your remaining two fentanyl patches stare back at you; you’re supposed to put on one and then wait a week before putting on your last, like Kankri told you to, but they’ve stopped being as effective. You still get relief from one, sure, but it fades much faster and you still _feel_. It hurts like hell _all the time_ , but you’re somewhat more functional.

Right now, you can’t be _somewhat_. Letting out a shaky breath, you take both out of their packaging and slap them onto your back.

Sinking down into your chair, you wait, feeling jittery. You can feel sweat beading on your forehead and with a sigh, you rake your hair back, mussing it from its sprayed part. Fentanyl acts fast—you can already feel your legs starting to tingle, and you know they’ll be numb soon enough, along with most of you. Closing your eyes, you let yourself think about how to go about this.

Your eyes aren’t closed for more than a second before the door at the other end of the office clatters open. Since your desk is one of a few in the immediate area, it could be another Angel who’s on desk coming to check in, but instead it’s your father and one of his direct underlings, shouldering a body between them. Whoever it is has to be alive still, since they’re walking in stilted motions that scream _drugged_ , and a sack is over their head. Somehow, neither your father nor his assistant notice you, and you watch silently as they open the door directly in front of them on the other side of the room from which they came, then slam it behind them.

You know what’s back there—interrogation rooms, plus a couple of cells. Who could your father be bringing in, if not Abraxas’ killer? You’re about to have Gamzee cornered; there can’t be a more important job than that right now.

From the other room, your father’s voice raises, then quiets. Whatever this is, you can sense the urgency, and remembering Fef’s plea, you make the same decision you did earlier: it can only be you who goes for Gam. Just you.

After listening for a few minutes to no avail, you heave yourself out of your chair and shoulder your backpack before heading to the armory, leaving your crutches leaning against your desk.

Walking is weird at first, as it usually is when you get drugged back up, but you get the hang of it before you’re strolling into the armory to pick up your rifle. It’s been a long while since you’ve carried it outside the building, but it’s still here, ready for you. It’s a simple design with a quick-reload magazine, polished and pretty and most importantly, loaded and scoped. Threading the strap around you, you make sure the safety is on before slinging it over your shoulder, grabbing an extra container of the correct ammunition, and going on your way.

The night air is brisk against your cheeks, but your practical uniform—a light gray turtleneck that should be more bulletproof than the last one of its kind you had, plus some sturdy black pants—keeps you warm enough. You reach the elevators without trouble, your Angel badge allowing you entrance after-hours and letting you commandeer an elevator. Your hands shake as you go down, and you wring them and breathe, focusing hard on steadying them. Even when you’d been in the Furthest Ring for years, it hadn’t taken much of your willpower to make them stop trembling, but now, it seems you can’t.

For some reason, that makes you furious. Your hands can’t be shaking as you go to shoot Makara. They can’t be, you might miss your shot! You think that maybe you’re jittery because you’re unsure if you are doing the right thing here, but that’s impossible; you’re _right_. It’s the drugs, it has to be. They’ve always made it seem like you’re not entirely in control, not all there—

Just like Gamzee wants you to be now. No wonder he got you hooked.

Was this his plan all along? Get you so high on painkillers that you wouldn’t be able to shoot him because of unsteady hands? Well that’s stupid, you’ll fucking show him—

The elevator doors slide open, and as you step out, you make yourself stop and take a deep breath. You know you sound irrational, manic. Paranoia was always something you struggled with and as you breathe, you tell yourself that a scheme so convoluted couldn’t exist. You’re not _that_ important. Gamzee just played you a bit, just like the Church always plays people.

Slightly calmer, you continue on your way, heading out of the empty elevator depot and into the night. You need to get to Derse, so you head two blocks south and three east to the nearest stop that’ll take you there. Waiting sucks, and a few times you feel your paranoia come creeping back, but you blankface each time, making sure your mental state reflects your expression. You are calm and sure and ready for anything.

After ten minutes, a bus pulls up and it’s not yours. It makes you want to shoot the wheels and scream, but that’s crazy so you can’t do that. Huffing, you keep waiting and five minutes later, the one you want comes and you get right on, sliding your debit card over the scanner and taking a seat near in the back.

It takes far too long to get to Derse. Sure, it would’ve taken much longer if you’d walked, but the lost time still irks you. Gamzee better still be there, or you’ll—you’ll—

You feel like there’s so much you could do right now, hyped on pain killers and adrenaline and bitter grief. Gam is going to still be there, and you’ll make this right.

As you sit at a stop eight blocks from Derse, not paying attention to the older couple getting off the bus, you notice something. The billboard plastered on the side of the building behind the stop has been defaced in such a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The background is gold—Angel gold. Your symbol is painted in white, wings gaping, but there’s blood. So much blood, thrown all over it, browned from sitting there for a while but nobody has called it in, nobody has alerted anyone to its presence. The Angels and your Lord English haven’t been paying attention to anywhere but headquarters since the breach so you’re not surprised it was overlooked by security, but no one down here said anything to the authorities. They let this vandalism sit here and rot in the sun and then in the dark, the lights illuminating it bright.

You don’t need to see the signature to know who did this.

(You wonder if it’s Abraxas’ blood on the canvas.)

Steady, Ampora. Breathe in, breathe out. You need a clear head for this. Don’t let Gamzee make you angry. The bus lurching forward startles you, and it doesn’t stop again until you pull the line for Derse.

When you make it inside of the old hotel, you can hear the chatter a minute before you make it to the door. Hundreds of people are present, milling about and talking to each other like the best of friends; Kankri’s speeches and declarations are over, turning the meeting into more of a friendly discussion between peers. As you weave your way through the crowd to the table up front where you know your friends will be, some people step back. You hear the gasps, the declarations, _he has a gun, he has a GUN, that’s an ANGEL_. Scowling, you shove someone a little harder than necessary to get through, and you can already hear people behind you getting up and leaving. Good. They don’t need to see this.

At the front, you see Fef first. You’ll always see Fef first, no matter where you are; you’re drawn to her like a gnat to light. Porrim, Kankri, and Mituna are all looking around confusedly, trying to figure out why people are suddenly exiting en masse, but then Mituna spots you, and more notably, the gun. “ _Whoa_!” he says, blinking hard and standing with his back ramrod straight. It’s a change from his usual slump. “The fuck do you think you’re _doing_?”

“Is he still here?” you ask Fef, ignoring him. She’s staring at you, eyes wide with surprise, and then her expression shifts to something more indignant.

“What _are_ you doing?” she repeats, putting her hands on her hips. You give her a Look; it’s quite obvious what your plan is. Voice dropping, she whispers furiously, “You’re not going to be anyone’s _executioner_!”

Snorting, you say, “Then what did I do for the BHG, huh? How was that any different than this?”

“At least they were _convicted_. This is a hunch!”

“A _hunch_?” you repeat sarcastically, barking a laugh. “He left his bloody mark right on Abraxas’ boot! If he can be a fuckin’ _murderer_ , than the least I can do is bring some _justice_.”

“Anyone can get some purple paint and draw a smiley face.” This is futile. Rolling your eyes, you turn, but Fef grabs your wrist before you can walk away. Too many people are fleeing; you need to catch Makara before he joins them. “Eridan,” she implores, “ _think_ for a second!”

Lips pulling back in a snarl, you yank out of her grasp. “I _have_ thought, long and hard. Sure, anyone could draw a smiley, but how many people can break into headquarters, huh?”

“Not Gamzee!”

“He’s _Church_ , Fef!” You’re exasperated now. “What don’t you get?”

She makes a frustrated noise, like she’s ready to stamp her foot in indignation, but you leave her side, hopping up onto the main table and scanning the room. Someone lets out a yell, alerting everyone to your change in position, and now even those who hadn’t noticed you are up and heading for the exits.

Scanning the far side of the room, you don’t see him. Shit, shit, shit, you missed your opportunity, now he’s going to run far away and you’ll _never_ find him.

“Eridan!” Kankri says, stepping in front of you and sounding pissed. “Get down from there!”

“Don’t worry, brother. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

That voice. You reach for your gun automatically, pulling it up and leveling it at Gam. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kankri take a step back, surprised by your quick motion. Gamzee is sitting at a table near the middle of the ballroom, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table, looking as nonchalant as he did as he signed a bar tab in Cascade, months ago.

As you peer at his mug through your scope, he looks unperturbed that you’re pointing a gun at him. Honestly, he’s completely at ease, hands pillowed behind his head and a smile on his face. His creepy makeup is in place, not a streak out of line, but his blond hair is still wild. He hums at your change in position, then laughs in a way that makes ice shoot down your spine. “Both I know and you know that you’re not gonna put a bullet anywhere near me.”

“You don’t know _shit_ ,” you say, baring your teeth at him. “How the fuck did you get in?”

Shaking his head slowly, he moves his hands so they’re dangling at his sides and tilting his head back so he’s baring his throat. “I didn’t even come _close_ to that mockery of a chapel. I’ve been down here all day doing whatever the FUCK I please.”

You didn’t expect him to raise his voice. Gam _never_ talks loud. There was something in his tone for a second, something raw—just for a moment, you thought he wanted to kill you, but it was gone so fast that you think you could’ve imagined it.

“But you know what happened,” you say, still completely convinced that he did the deed himself. “You know who’s dead—”

“And it’s a motherfuckin’ pity, too,” Gam says, actually sounding forlorn even though you know there’s no lost love between him and any Angel, including yourself. “I don’t need no blood on my hands other than what’s _paint_ , brother. And I don’t NEED all of that fuckin’ ACCUSATION in that tone!” The table you’re standing on shakes, and your eyes flit away from Gamzee just for a second to see that Fef has stepped onto the other end and is staring you down. Grimacing, you look back to Gam. “I’m only here ‘cause I knew you’d be wantin’ some sorta explanation, but I don’t control who uses my little smile without my know-how. Instead, I just wanna pass on a bit of a warnin’. Get me?”

You flick the safety off; the click is loud in the silence that is suffocating the ballroom. “Stop contradicting yourself and say something _useful_ before you’re a blood splatter.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, somehow managing to still look in control. Fuck him; you have the gun, so _you’re_ in control. “I just wanted to say,” he says, “person to person, brother to brother, that I’m all torn up about this. Almost motherfuckin’ depressed about it, even. I still up an’ think you can be _saved_ , so you don’t end up as stone cold unalive as your other bro. That’d be mighty unfortunate, so I want you to keep a watchful eye out, you gettin’ your understanding on?”

“That’s all?” you snap as he lowers his hands and gets up from his seat slowly.

Shrugging languidly, Gamzee turns to leave, saying, “Well if we’re changin’ subjects, that is a pretty strong stance you got there. Remember that I’ve up and done you some little bit of good.”

Oh, _fuck_ him! You line up your barrel with his too-big head.

Just as you’re about to shoot, you’re tackled. You do not let go of your gun; you even squeeze it in your fist, but since you’re a proper fuckin’ Angel, you hadn’t yet moved your finger from the trigger guard, so amazingly, the rifle doesn’t go off. The fall to the floor from the table is short, but you still get the wind knocked out of you. Somehow, you react immediately, getting your free hand tangled in the assailant’s shirt so you can shove them off you, but you recognize the pink fabric. Fef was wearing this shirt.

Your gaze moves upwards to meet Fef’s. She’s straddling you, face determined, and that makes you suddenly aware of yourself—you’re breathing so hard you’re practically panting and shaking from exertion. Your ears are ringing in the silence, but you still hear the shift of cloth as Gamzee turns. The sound of his shoes on the hardwood echoes around the room, and you bite, “Fef. Get _off_ of me.”

“No,” she says, just as resolute as her posture would suggest. “Eridan, think. You shoot him, and then what? The petty feud between the Angels and the Church escalates even _more_!”

You snarl, “ _Fef_!” as you attempt to rise, because somehow she doesn’t fucking _understand_ —

She moves fast, slamming your shoulders into the ground. You could get her off you easily, but you might hurt her, and you’re _almost_ willing to risk that right now but not quite. Leaning close to your face, she hisses, “ _You_ listen to _me_! Let go of the gun.”

“You’ll have to break my hand for it.”

“ _I am not fucking around_ , Eridan!”

“Neither am I.”

You stare at each other for a few seconds and she eventually reaches for your hand, and with dull despair you acknowledge she might be willing to do it, but all she does it turn the safety on. With a long sigh, she lets go of you and falls back to sit on your hips. Distantly, you can hear Kankri and Rufioh bickering in low tones.

There’s a shock of pain in your hand, and the gun skitters out of your grasp and slides across the floor. Looking up, you see Porrim, putting her foot back down after a well-placed kick. “ _Ow_ ,” you complain.

“Get over yourself,” she says, marching over to join Kankri.

No one else assaults you, so you just lay there, trying to get control of your breathing. No matter how much you focus, you still feel winded. After a couple of silent minutes, Fef says, “I tried to aim above your legs when I rushed you. Are you okay?”

“I’d be better if you let me shoot him,” you say shortly. Even if she did hurt you, you doubt you’d feel it right now. You can’t even feel her sitting on you—the only sensation you’re privy to right now is itchiness, all along your skin and even inside of you, like your veins have been replaced by tunnels in an ant hill, but you have enough training to be able to ignore it.

“You can’t go around like some stupid vigilante that kills everyone who pisses you off,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s not good for anyone.”

“He murdered Abraxas in Angel headquarters.” Does she not understand what a big deal that is? “You don’t fucking _get it_ —”

“ _Gamzee was baiting you_ ,” she says condescendingly. “He’s showed up to, what, two meetings? He knows you have ties here, so he _wanted_ you to come. He wanted you to do _something_. Maybe he even wanted to _die_ here! Who knows? The Church is freaking _nuts_! All I know is that I’m _done_ watching you do stupid stuff. You might be an idiot who falls right into the plans of whomever the hell comes your way, but _I’m not_.”

“That’s arrogant as shit,” you say, and your voice is strained for some reason. You can’t think of anything else to say but that, and it seems she doesn’t have a rebuttal, so you just relax spread-eagle on the floor as Fef sits on you, not letting you up.

Footsteps come closer, and Kankri stands over you, giving you a fine view of his crotch. Crossing his arms over his chest and scowling deeply, he says, “What were you _thinking_?” His voice is low, dangerous.

“I was _thinking_ ,” you say, mimicking his tone, “that he could’ve killed any one of you, and it would’ve been fuckin’ easy.”

“You could’ve killed anyone in this room with that thing,” he rebukes, nodding towards your rifle. “Did you not, for one second, stop and think ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t go sauntering into a crowded building with a loaded gun to dispense my own sense of precious _justice’_?!”

You snort. “Well, first of all, I don’t really talk like that so no, I wouldn’t have—”

“ _Eridan_ ,” Kankri seethes.

Karkat pipes up from somewhere, “Someone he cared about got murdered today, alright? Of course he wasn’t fucking thinking, he doesn’t even think when he’s _not_ mourning.”

“Don’t try to defend him,” Kankri says, tone clipped. Reaching a hand down, you’re about to snap that you can’t really get up right now, but Fef takes it, standing and straightening her skirt. You’re left to get up on your own accord, and your ascent is painstaking, even though you can’t really feel much. Kankri puts a hand on your shoulder to steady you, saying, “I have half a mind to rip those patches right off of you since I _know_ that’s how you got here—”

“And then what?” you snap. “I’m stuck here because I still can’t fucking _walk_.”

“Which is why I haven’t removed them from your person.” He lets out a long, shaky sigh. With a bitter smile, he says, “I am now seriously reconsidering your dinner invitation.”

Your brows draw together in bemusement. “What?”

“We were invited to dinner at Prospit tomorrow night, and your name was originally on the list of those included. Now, I’m not so sure you deserve the privilege.”

It’s not like Kankri to drag his family out for dinner; they don’t have the money. There has to be someone else footing the bill. “Whose invitation was is, originally?”

Kankri glances over to the remains of the group briefly, and you try to follow his gaze to pinpoint someone, but he looks back at you too soon for that. “Rose Lalonde’s.”

You blink hard, and then chuckle. Kankri looks taken aback by that. “First of all, _what the fuck_? Secondly, there’s no way she wrote that guest list because I wouldn’t be one of Lalonde’s chosen few.”

“Hell if I know,” Kankri says. “However, I beseech you not to show up. This is what was lost by your rash actions, Eridan.”

Snorting, you say snidely, “Oh no, I’ve been uninvited to a little dinner party, what a low fuckin’ blow.”

“Let’s go,” Kankri directs, and he removes his hand from your shoulder and strides away, chin up. His remaining inner circle goes to follow him, Karkat shooting you a furtive look that you can’t decipher, but after a beat of silence, you realize that Fef has stayed behind. She crosses the few steps across the floor to your rifle and she picks it up, holding it unnaturally in her hands, like it could explode at any second. Making a face, she shoves it at you and you take it gingerly, putting on the strap and practically throwing it onto your back.

Fef continues looking at the floor, and you keep looking at her. Eventually, she breaks the silence by saying, “I still don’t think Gamzee killed Abraxas.”

For some reason, her words make you feel hollow. Swallowing, you try to figure out what the hell to say, because you’re not so sure of yourself anymore. Why would he be here looking for you if he hadn’t had a part to play? To warn you, like he said? But then again, how did he get into Angel headquarters? _No one_ should’ve been able to, let alone just a disgruntled teen in a cult.

When you don’t reply, Fef just takes your arm and starts leading you out of here. For some reason, you let her, some of the heat of her palm seeping through your sweater and into the crook of your elbow. Now that adrenaline isn’t feeding your movements, you feel drained, numb. Somehow, you manage to put one foot in front of the other until you’re joining the rest of them at the bus stop, then getting on. Fef leads you to seats on the opposite side of the bus from them, like she wants to talk to you where someone else won’t overhear, but after a few minutes of silence, you realize that she wants _you_ to speak.

With a shaky sigh, you run your free hand through your hair and murmur, “What do you want me to say?”

Pursing her lips, she moves her hand down your arm so her fingers are threading through yours. “I want you to go home and get some sleep,” she says. “You don’t… you don’t need to say anything, really. But if you want to talk to me about Abraxas, you can.”

What else is there to say, really? He’d liked you as a kid and tolerated you now, but Fef knew that already. No one should’ve been able to get into Angel headquarters, let alone kill someone in them and then get out, but Fef knew that too. Feeling yourself deflate, you plop your cheek onto her head. “I’m exhausted,” you admit. _I’m afraid_ , you don’t.

She pats your knee and doesn’t say much else. You close your eyes, so you don’t see everyone else get off the bus, but you do realize that it’s empty except for you and Fef when you open them after quite a while.

Looking down at her, you ask, “Why are you still here?”

“I’m making sure you get off at the elevators,” she says, and you huff a little, wondering when you lost her trust.

In the next few minutes, you actually take her in for the first time since coming down. Her face has cleared of bruising, only because of the nanogenerative pads she picked up in the Burbs. You can only hope that means she’s not hurting anymore either. You’d tracked down Cronus after you’d taken her back down and screamed at him a little, but he rebutted by saying he didn’t have to do anything to help her and bluh bluh bluh, he’s a huge jackass.

Instead of asking about how she’s feeling, you question, “Are you going to the dinner party Kankri was waving in front of my face?”

There’s a beat of silence before she tentatively answers, “Yes.”

“Well, have fun with Lalonde, then.” You think this business is strange, but aren’t really worried; Rose has always been a little bit sympathetic, so she probably just wants to know what the fuck is going on with this movement and wants some familiar faces there as she does. Anyway, her ambiguously-related roommate Dirk Strider is in on this whole thing, so Lalonde probably feels like she has some catching up to do.

After pulling the cord for your stop, you squeeze Fef’s hand as you stand. You feel the beginnings of protest in your joints, and you should probably pick up your crutches from headquarters so you’ll have them tomorrow, even though you’re tired as shit right now. Bidding Fef farewell, you get off the bus and head back up the plateau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't catch it on tumblr, I posted a little ficlet in this 'verse a couple of weeks ago. You can find it [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/134741312969/awake). If you happen to be a newer reader and didn't know of the existence of ficlets, [here are the rest of them](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/tagged/eugenicstuck); there should be ten total, and that tag is also interspersed with the regular chapter updates, answers to asks, and other miscellaneous things from the 'verse. With the release of the Act 2 finale (which is the next chapter, woo!), I'll be posting two things on tumblr that are somewhat relevant to you: a playlist for each act (including Act 3, so if you want to decode some spoilers through music and theorize with me, go ahead and try!) and a searchable database that will include summaries for each chapter and each major plot point. I'm doing the former for fun and the latter because I know a monthly updating schedule means that it's hard to keep track of a lot of things that are going on in the story and since it's all starting to come together in the Act 2 finale and then the final act, I don't want you to have to go back and read the entire thing to remember how things got to x, y, or z. Including the upcoming finale, there are nine chapters left of this fic, and a lot will happen; we're at the climax, people. If you have any predictions, feel free to throw them my way because I love hearing them!


	23. XXII- 0 Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here we are. There's no turning back now.
> 
> As the Act 1 finale went, the POV alternates. Though there are a couple of interludes where the usual two POV characters aren't narrating, their parts will start with Eridan, then go to Feferi, and continue like that with very few breaks. Any parts that Eridan and Feferi aren't narrating will be in third person. Also, I did a collection of chapter/plotline summaries for this fic, since I go so long between updates. If you want a refresher, you can find that post [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/138961287004/the-story-so-far).

TICK TOCK

AG: I know my deadline passed. I know!!!!!!!! 8ut what we 8OTH know is I have a plan; that’s why I’m not dead yet. You’ve 8een watching me like a grade-A creeper 8ut you know what? I don’t care!!!!!!!!! It’s just PROOF that you had f8th in me all along! Do you want the deets, just so you can see how F8CKING FLAWLESS my plan is?

TICK TOCK

AG: Oh fuck off, old man.

AG SENT AN ATTACHMENT LABELLED GR8PLAN.docx

AG: I’ll have it for you 8y midnight.

TICK TOCK

* * *

 

“I want you to see this.”

You glance up from your desk; you hadn’t even noticed that it was your father who’d walked into the room, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a thin line. Saving the document you were working on, you slide your forearm crutches on and push yourself up, then follow after him into the interrogation area and cells. You walk past many open doors and empty soundproof rooms before coming to a sealed door near the end of the hall, bars on the window and light low. He knocks three times to alert the Angel in the room that he’s coming in, then opens the door, both of you entering.

The room is rank with sweat and fear. One of your father’s lesser officers is sitting at the interrogation table, looking bored, and when you see the prisoner, you have to blankface to hide your astonishment.

“We brought her in last night,” your father reports, his gaze not leaving Delrina’s slumped form. “She’s been tied to the conspiracy that killed Abraxas, though she hasn’t admitted to anything yet. She will soon.”

“And then what?” you can’t help but ask.

Your father shrugs. “The _A_ part of I &A, obviously.” He shoots you a look that shows he’s disappointed with your lack of deduction skills. “That’s what you’ve been brought in to see. This problem we’re dealing with is very time-sensitive, so we cannot do the full proceedings, but we think this bastardized version will suffice for her. You haven’t witnessed one of these sessions since you shadowed Abraxas, correct?”

You gulp. “Yes, sir.”

“Justine will be here in a moment with the proper tools, but I thought you could watch the proceedings as another example of how it’s done.” He eyes your crutches with distaste, like it’s their fault you can’t do shit right now, and you can’t help but shrink away from him slightly.

“Of course,” you say, straightening, and when you glance back at the interrogation table, Delrina is staring at you.

Her mouth opens and your blood runs cold, and for a moment you think she’s just going to gape, but then she shoots to her feet. She’s immediately yanked because her shaking hands are cuffed to the table, but she doesn’t sit back down. The officer who was sitting at the table across from her jumps to her feet as well, though she isn’t restrained so she goes to her full height. Still staring at you, Delrina says, “It’s _you_! Feferi! Feferi’s _boyfriend_. I remember you, you know I don’t have time for conspiracies, man, I got my own company to worry about! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do it, kid, tell them— _tell them_ —!”

“Eridan?” your father says sharply, and you stand up ramrod straight in a quick motion, making your lower back twinge. “What is the meaning of this?”

You open your mouth to say something, _anything_ , but Delrina continues. “He just gave me _drugs_!” She bursts out, leaning across the table to get closer to you. Her pupils are different sizes and she’s sweating buckets; _withdrawal_ , a corner of your mind whispers. “I know him, _okay_? Get it? But I didn’t kill your guy! I don’t want anyone dead! But he—he always got me Serenity shipments and people need those, _you needed those,_ dude! So when he said he’d give me somethin’ extra for bein’ such a good middle man I didn’t think he was planting shit on me!”

It’s forgotten that she’s saying all of this to you; to your father, it’s a confession, and he slides into the other chair across from her and all you can do is keep looking, horrified because you know what happens next.

“I need you to say the name,” your dad says, voice level. “Who gave you Abraxas’ watch?”

She swallows noisily and her legs collapse under her, sending her back into her seat, hard. She still hasn’t stopped looking at you, and now her eyes are more focused. “Why aren’t you helping me?” she questions, voice hollow. “I know you, _why aren’t you helping me_? I didn’t know Scratch wanted to kill him—”

Delrina starts as the officer jabs a syringe into her arm, and she can only stare as the plunger is pushed. You see your father turn towards you, but by the time your mind catches up with your actions you’ve bolted from the room, moving as fast as you can hobble then sliding down the wall in your shared office space. After a silent minute, Justine—the Angel who’d set up your initiation and specializes in I&A—comes bustling through, heading for Delrina and your father without sparing you a single glace. They’re probably going to be occupied in there for a while now.

This gives you an idea. Your father’s office is properly _empty_ , now. He doesn’t have cameras or mics in there (he refused to have his office monitored on principle, because he knows that the equipment is there to watch the Angels and not any miracle worker who might break in), and he has access to pretty much everything. His computer usage isn’t watched or restricted either, because he’s head of the goddamn initiative and he wants to do whatever he desires with no restraints. Taking a deep breath and gathering your courage, you head to his office on the top floor of the building.

It will be easy to get into his office if he didn’t have the prints changed. Like most locks in the building, the metal door handle takes your handprint and scans it before allowing you in. When you were younger, your entire family—including him, you, Cronus, and your mother—was able to unlock the door, since your mother encouraged the two of you dropping by to learn about his work and bring him lunch from a young age. He allowed it, because you and Cro were his kids and when you were still very young, he loved you properly, like a father should. As you got older, you were only tools to him, but you don’t remember him ever mentioning that he got the locks changed.

The camera in the hallway outside his office sees you hesitate, you know. People will realize you’ve been here, but they’ll also have seen your run-in with Delrina; they will hopefully assume that you’ve gone to his office to talk to him and come clean once he gets back, and that means you’ll have to linger there even after you’ve done what you came for.

When you grasp the door handle, there’s a soft click and the office door opens right up. You wonder if Terezi somehow knew about this and that’s why she contacted you, out of all of the Angels here, but she also probably knew a lot of other things, too. You were really the perfect candidate to perform the wipe she wanted.

Closing the door behind you, you head over to your dad’s desk, coming to stand behind it; you don’t want his chair to be warm when he comes back. Waving your hand over the glass desk, you wake up the computer, gulping when you realize that he’d have a password. To your surprise, though, the screen just shows his desktop.

No one could ever get into his office without his consent. Cronus can’t even get into the building anymore and your mother is dead, so that means you’re the only one besides him with access to this computer. The password would’ve been inconvenient for a computer that only one person ever uses, but he _had_ to remember that you could get into his office. He’s single-minded and harsh but he’s not dumb. Your father must still trust you a great deal, even now.

With your heart suddenly in your throat, you go about breaking that trust.

It takes you a couple of minutes of digging around on the Angel cloud servers to find the Pesterlog archives. When you search cuttlefishCuller on reflex, you see so many conversations pop up—correspondences with Aradia, Sollux, Kanaya, and so many with you. As you scroll, however, you do see gardenGnostic more than a couple of times; Fef must’ve talked to her ten times by now. If Terezi is right about the gravity of the situation, even one conversation would be damning. This is more than enough to get her killed.

With renewed purpose, you click on Jade’s screenname instead. Reaching for the tablet in your pocket, you turn on notes and write down all of the chumhandles she’s consorted with that aren’t Fef’s and Ter’s for your own personal use. You’ll need to have another chat with Terezi before you see how you can use them.

tentacleTherapist

carcinoGeneticist

adiosToreador

turntechGodhead

grimAuxiliatrix

apocalypseArisen

timaeusTestified

You know too many of those. Lips thinning into a displeased line, you wipe all of her conversations, then do a sweep of the server to see if there are any other traces of a gardenGnostic. You come up empty, so you close everything and put the computer back into hibernate mode. Pulling the chair back to where it was before you’d moved it out of the way, you go sit on the other side of your father’s desk and wait for him, playing a game on your tablet and pretending you’re not nervous enough to feel queasy.

He comes in about twenty minutes later, looking annoyed. He starts when you’re in here, but he doesn’t demand to know how you got in so he must know that your handprint is still in the system—how else would you have barged in when you found Abraxas’ body yesterday? Going around to the other side of his desk, he sits and appraises you, fingers steepled and expression sour. His, “Glad you got your friend to talk,” sounds almost petulant.

Sitting up straight and trying not to let him intimidate you, you say, “I hardly knew her. I bought Serenity off her and that’s it.”

Raising his eyebrows, he says, “But she knew Feferi. Do I need to have words with her?”

You don’t let the terror that just enveloped you show on your face. You do not want your father within a hundred feet of Fef let alone interrogating her, so you have to fix this. “She usually bought the Serenity, actually. Delrina only saw me a couple of times, and that’s why she didn’t know my name. You know Fef—she’s nice to everyone, including drug addicts that don’t follow the law.”

Scoffing, your father rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I guess it was too naïve to hope she’d outgrow that. I will leave her alone for now, only as a favor to you. I hope you appreciate it.”

Relief courses though you, but you know what that means: you can’t step another toe out of line, or else she goes into I&A. Glenda Peixes would get a laugh out of that. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“I just wish this ordeal could be over now. This whole movement,” he starts, sinking downwards in his chair and staring at the wall, “just _reeks_ of sedition. Delrina was only a minor player—one who got a good friend of mine killed, but a minor one all the same. Her tip that Scratch was the main perpetrator was of no surprise to me, and with that, the Felt has declared war, just the same as the Church did many, many years ago. Small people who talk of _change_ do not realize what would happen if their demands are met. Change means people like Scratch get power, and he’s close to seizing it, I know for sure. We must topple any opposition to us, Eridan. You have to understand the utter chaos the world would fall into if we gave up even an ounce of power. Scratch feeds on weakness and will do anything to gain even an _inch_ , so we need to take down Kankri Vantas’ little revolution before it’s firmly on its feet. Scratch will feed once it’s properly standing.”

You do not like the sound of Kank’s name in your father’s mouth. It sounds vile, and while you agree that Scratch can’t be in control of anything besides his mob, you don’t think “taking down” Kankri and his people— _your friends_ , you force yourself to think—is the answer.

“When do the executions start?” you ask bluntly, so he thinks you’re on the same page.

His posture doesn’t change but his eyes flicker to you, inquisitive. “Why are you so certain that I want to execute people?”

You straighten your shoulders, trying to seem as serious and imposing as you can. “It’s weird how long we’ve been waiting to do shit, this time,” you say. “The Angels started taking people away before the justice building thing, and once they’d blown up a building—which is much more of an aggressive action than anything they did before and since—the Angels didn’t make any other appearances. We didn’t even get revenge for that.”

Seymour leans back in his office chair, folding his arms behind his head. “We did do something; you were asleep for it. The people behind it were brought into I&A.”

“No they weren’t,” you say, and you don’t realize until after you’ve said it that you just risked people’s lives. If he knew Kankri’s name, then of course he would end up connecting the two if you convinced him the proper people haven’t paid. God, you’re an _idiot_!

“Well, it doesn’t really matter _who_ got wiped, does it?” He shrugs. “It’s the action itself that matters. We took away some people that _stayed_ gone. They got the message; no other property damage has happened.”

 “Look, all I’m trying to say is that this isn’t standard operating procedure.”

“You sound so eager about the prospect of people dying,” he says, and even though his tone is flat you sense the sarcasm in it, because here you are, asking about the executions of thumps. Normally, this would be seen as a lower-ranking Angel trying to be an over-achiever. You’re certain your dad knows that you are more than acquainted with a lot of these people; he has to realize you’re asking for their benefits. When you don’t reply to his remark, he continues, “Executions don’t get things done like they used to. My father used mass execution like a crutch. I always thought I was cleverer than that. Executions make people like Kankri Vantas, who rise up for revenge. Executing Vantas would just make him a martyr, and no one up here likes those; people down there would _die_ for them. With the death of someone like that, the lesser folk become less expendable. Once the fire has started burning, all they have to do is keep it alight. We can’t _afford_ a spark right now, so we’ll watch. We’ll wait for him to do something stupid, or for someone close to him to slip up, and that’s when we’ll move.”

He has not looked you in the eye since he started speaking. You don’t detect a lie in his voice, but you don’t think it’s the whole truth either. Finally, his gaze turns to you, and he quirks an eyebrow. “Are you satisfied?”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Kankri won’t be executed, but there’s something else in store for the whole lot of them. You know he won’t tell you if you ask, so you don’t push. After swallowing, you can say, “I guess.”

“Then go. You’re done for the day.”

 

* * *

 

Monday morning, it is announced that the Archbishop will be making a special announcement at noon. Usually, his televised sermons are on Sunday, but you remember flipping channels yesterday and it wasn’t on; you guess it got bumped for some reason. Maybe this time, he has something more important to say than a bunch of drivel about glorious revenge and the end of the world.

You go up to the Maryam-Vantas apartment ten minutes before it’s about to start. Porrim, surprisingly, lets you in, greeting you with a somewhat subdued, “Hey, Feferi, come on in,” and you wonder why she isn’t working. Kankri has every other Monday off and this is one of his free days, so he’s lying on the couch when you enter, an arm behind his head and his eyes trained on the television. Karkat and Kanaya are both sitting at the bar, stools turned toward the TV, and you know they have jobs too so they shouldn’t be here, but you don’t really want to ask. That seems rude.

…Oh, whatever, you want to know. “Is everyone off today?”

“We asked off for the speech,” Porrim says, pulling you to the couch.  “It’s pretty easy for Karkat and Kanaya to get off since they just do random shit, but my manager knows my history. She understood. Scoot,” she directs Kankri and he huffs, sitting up and allowing you room.

“You never watch his Sunday sermons,” you comment as you plop down next to Porrim.

Lips thinning, she says, “Those aren’t the important ones.”

It’s quiet for the few minutes left until the sermon, like no one wants to speak. The silence is the loaded kind, and you have so many questions but they’re so personal and invasive; you don’t want to make Porrim more worked-up than she is now, so you leave it alone.

When the commercials stop and the screen fades to black, a purple image pops up, swirls looking almost like the face of a bearded man. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Porrim’s hands shaking; Kankri reaches and takes one, squeezing tightly.

Gareth Makara appears in front of the symbol, like your mother had presented herself during the Pisces Program announcement, wearing a huge grin that fits his large frame well. His traditional makeup is immaculate, the pits of his eyes blacker than night and light shading makes his cheekbones jut out. His wild blond hair frames his face and puffs out, curlier than Gamzee’s but just as untamed. After a slow blink at the camera, he starts to speak.

“There can be days where your faith is shaken.” His voice is deep and rich, almost comforting in a low, warm way. He can fake compassion at the drop of a hat, and he plays the game well. “Maybe yours has been shaken in recent times by a poor rat who thinks himself a citizen of all. Mine has been tested by y’all.” He shakes his head ruefully, then shrugs, seeming to say, _oh, what can you do?_ “This admonishment will be over right quick, my brothers and sisters. All this fuckin’ guilt that’s coming out of your pores has been properly witnessed and will be taken into the mightiest consideration at your upcoming judgement.”

“I…” He trails off with a little chuckle, eyes crinkling in a way that makes him seem jubilant. “I’ve been watching. I always am. In place of God, I see your movements and follies. There are different kinds of sinners, ones of scorn and ones of plight—people who fuck with what shouldn’t be fucked with either way. Blasphemy comes in different shades, a whole motherfuckin’ rainbow, and it does not _matter_ whether you are a worshipper or a heretic. We watch you all the same, because there are sinners in both categories who have lost the respect you so definitely need when dealing with the matters of faith.

“Oh I know that deep in my heart of hearts there are some genuine God-fearing folk out there, those who have not let themselves be dulled from the Lord because of all this technology surrounding us and making us forget that despite our penchant to play God, we are not Him. Our time on this Earth is limited and precious, because I know that Heaven is a gentle lie we tell our children because we don’t want them to fear what comes after; we are all sinners and all of us will go to Hell, especially those of us who play at being God, but why _not_ play at God, if we’re all going to rot anyway? We will never achieve His glory and we ain’t really trying to, since it’s all about making our lives comfortable.

“But really, this isn’t a lecture ‘bout hedonism—it’s about faith and tradition, the right and the true. Those of you who support that dumb thump will not get the comfortable life here, because you are fighting a battle that will _lose_. He’s not even playing at God, like we are; he’s playing at being us, up here in the Burbs and in our own Heaven, and we’re something tangible that can’t really be played at. We ain’t got time,” he says, holding his arms out in mocking acceptance and lifting his broad shoulders in a shrug, “for weaklings and cowards who want to be martyrs. And to be completely fucking honest, y’all down there don’t have time for it either, because Pisces will eat you the hell _alive_ and you will not know His mercy, nor will you know mine. From now onwards, you are only alive because we are humoring you—you have become the cosmic joke of this damn world, because for each one of the upstarts we dispose of, the more little worker drones we get to make. So think about that, next time you decide to be brats. Amen, and God bless.”

The television screen fades back to black, and the tension in the room is almost suffocating. You can only stare at the TV for a few moments, barely breathing and taking it all in.

“He’s so full of shit!” Porrim snarls venomously, chucking the TV remote at the ground. The batteries pop out, but it seems otherwise unharmed. When you look back up at her, Kankri has grabbed her wrist and they’re gazing at each other like they’re having an entire conversation without saying a single word. Porrim’s chest heaves, and that’s when you see the fear crop up in her expression, and you think about what Porrim had told you at the demonstration gala.

_A nun of the Dolorosa Order._

The thought is a whisper, a lick at the back of your mind. You imagine Porrim in long, black robes, the thin material sweeping out behind her when she walks. No wonder she likes tight clothing now. No wonder she wears lots of color. You think of the woman—no, the _girl_ —who gathered the courage to take a toddler and run away from one of the most powerful organizations in the world. She must’ve been very brave. As you look at her, you correct yourself; she still _is_ very brave.

“Everything will be alright,” Kankri says softly.

The illusion shatters, and she’s just Porrim again. Quickly wiping under her eyes with her thumb, she jerks up off the couch and flees the room, heading for her and Kanaya’s shared bedroom and slamming the door behind her so hard that the building shakes. Kankri follows slowly, leaning with his ear pressed against the door for a few moments before he carefully opens the door and shuts it behind him.

“I never know what to do,” Kanaya says, and when you glace back at the bar, her hands are balled into fists on her lap, “when she gets like this. I don’t… I don’t really understand.”

When she said _“like this”_ , you don’t think she meant angry.

“Well, what do you remember?” Karkat asks. Getting up from the couch, you join them at the bar, sitting on the other side of Kanaya. “About living there?”

“Nothing, really,” she says, brushing her bangs out of her face. “I was so young. But I do—” She stops when a frustrated scream comes from Porrim’s direction, and you all listen as Kankri’s voice rises with hers, then quiets back down. Kanaya finishes, “I do remember always feeling afraid, at the end. Afraid that I was going to die. That _she_ was going to.”

“A three-year-old shouldn’t have to know what death is,” you say softly.

“Maybe not in your old world,” Karkat says, his voice hard but not unkind. “But in your new one, we have to. Kids aren’t exempt from shit.”

It’s a sobering thought, but one you know to be true. Swallowing, you reach over to pat Kanaya’s knee. “She’ll be fine by dinner tonight, I’m sure. We’ll have a great time!”

“I hope so,” Kanaya says with a small smile. “I… I want her to like Rose. She really is lovely.”

Raising your eyebrows, you look at Karkat; he doesn’t seem to be at all confused by her statement, and instead of looking bewildered, he puts an arm around her shoulder. “If she makes you happy and isn’t a complete bastard, I’m sure Porrim will be pretty damn accepting. I’m just looking forward to the food. Too bad we didn’t get to eat at the gala; Prospit looks damn _fancy_.”

You laugh without thinking, because Prospit is nothing compared to some of the places in the Burbs, but before you can apologize, Karkat puts your giggle in a different light. “See? Even Feferi’s excited! I know she can get excited about a funny-looking cloud or going up on a roof, but hey, maybe this excitement actually means something.” You stick your tongue out at him. “It’ll be great Kanaya, I promise.”

Smiling thinly, she folds her hands in her lap. “One can only hope.”

 

* * *

 

“Serket said that she’d have it tomorrow,” Scratch says lazily, dragging his thumb up and down along Damara’s swollen lower lip. He’s coming down from a post-sex high, and here he’s complacent, glistening with sweat and still pressed against his favorite whore’s side, not yet giving her a dismissal. “She sent me the plans and everything; her idea seems sound, though she _did_ imply she wanted my help.”

“You won’t give it to her,” Damara says flatly.

“Of course not,” he replies, his breath almost a chuckle. His words are a purr of arrogance. “I have something much larger planned.”

“What?” she questions bluntly.

Scratch’s hand pauses on her lip, and then reaches up to flick her nose as he would do to a naughty cat. His, “You wouldn’t understand,” is too condescending.

But that’s all right, Damara reasons. It won’t be long now.

“You have been very loose with her,” she comments, dragging her toes along one of his legs, and he shivers. “You aren’t usually so lenient with people who don’t put out.”

Scratch’s snort is low, hardly audible. “I was told it would be hard to distract Vriska Serket. They were wrong.”

His hand moves to one of her breasts, and she lets him do whatever he wants, pawing and playing until he’s ready again and without any fanfare, he shoves her head down. Blowing him is impersonal, and the way his fingers tangle in her hair, yanking, and the moaning coming from his mouth makes her all the more vicious. He likes that, and she hates that he does, but she’s known the ins and outs of Scratch’s preferences for years and the roughness makes it just a bit more bearable.

“Go,” he says, once she’s swallowed and he’s too drowsy to preen and brag. Damara gets up, making a show of stretching with her back arched and hands toward the ceiling. He turns away from her, and she should feel scorned by that but all she feels is blankness curdled in sadistic pleasure.

Her clothes are in a heap just outside of Scratch’s bedroom door, and she finds the article on the bottom of the pile: her coat. In an inner pocket is a small handgun that looks like a toy in Damara’s large hands, but it will do the job.

For all Scratch claims to be omnipotent and incredibly perceptive, he doesn’t react when she comes back in. He has his back turned to the doorway and is certainly not yet asleep because he didn’t hear her leave through the back door of the house. He probably thinks she has a favor to request, and he is not a kind man; he is planning to make her beg for what she wants, but of course he will end up giving it to her, because she is the best fuck out of any of his girls.

She takes her time to line up the shot, then releases a slow breath as she pulls the trigger.

If she’d messed this up, she’d be dead in a moment, but she didn’t—Scratch’s blood splatters the headboard and surprisingly, he does not bleed green. Damara had known this of course (she’d torn up his back with her nails on multiple occasions) but for some reason, she thought the legend might hold true upon his death. Though her small gun doesn’t hold many bullets, she walks closer and shoots him in the head and in the chest once more; there’s no such thing as being too careful. The guards posted at the front of the house wouldn’t have heard the gunshot, but they will see the blood and the gun in her hand when she walks out and make the proper assumptions.

This was a dirty play, but Damara loves dirty. Though the Felt may grumble and glare daggers when her back is turned, she has killed the old leader and now she has the position, whether they like it or not, for better or for worse.

On the subject of the latter, Damara grins. At this point, she doesn’t care how it goes. All that matters is that she is free, and now _her_ reign can begin.

 

* * *

 

\--caligulasAquarium [CA]  began pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

CA: i did it

CA: i wwiped her clean

GC: 3XC3LL3NT! 1 T4K3 1T YOU W3R3NT D3T3CT3D?

CA: course not

CA: are you doubtin my angelic prowwess

GC: YOUR3 TH3 ON3 WHO OR1G1N4LLY 3XPR3SS3D DOUBTS 4BOUT YOUR 4B1L1T13S!

CA: wwhatevver

CA: all that matters noww is fefs safe

CA: right?

GC: NOT N3C3SS4R1LY

CA: …

CA: wwhat the FUCK pyrope

CA: then wwhat the HELL did i do this for

GC: WH4T 1 M34NT TO 1MPLY 1S TH4T SH3 1S NO LONG3R 1N D4NG3R FROM TH3 4NG3LS

GC: HOW3V3R, TH3R3 4R3 OTH3R D4NG3ROUS TH1NGS, WH1CH 1S WHY YOUR PR3SC3NC3 W4S R3QU3ST3D 4T PROSP1T TON1GHT WH3N ROS3 H4S D1NN3R W1TH 3V3RYON3

GC: YOU, MR 4MPOR4, 4R3 4 H4LF-D3C3NT L4Y3R OF PROT3CT1ON!

CA: its too bad that im not goin then

CA: kank said i couldnt come cause i almost shot gam last night

GC: YOU D1D WH4T?!

GC: CHR1ST N3V3RM1ND, WH4T H4PP3N3D B3TW33N YOU 4ND TH4T CLOWN DO3SNT R34LLY M4TT3R

GC: WH4T M4TT3RS 1S TH4T YOU SHOW UP TO PROSP1T WH3N YOU 4R3 SUPPOS3D TO!

GC: YOU 4RE OUR VR1SK4 R3P3LL4NT SL4SH D3T3RR4NT >:[

CA: too fuckin bad i aint goin

CA: not unless you tell me wwhy its so important that i do

GC: 1V3 R3FUS3D TO 3XPL41N TH1S ON P3ST3RCHUM B3FOR3 4ND 1 W1LL UPHOLD MY PR3V1OUS JUDG3M3NT

GC: 1 DONT P4RT1CUL4RLLY W4NT TO 3ND UP D34D

CA: nor do i

CA: HOWWEVVER

CA: i feel like if im gonna continue to be invvolvved in this i at least deservve somethin

CA: look if you really dont wwanna talk on here i can meet up wwith you

CA: how about you and i go down to the park and havve a look around

GC: TH4T SOUNDS SOM3WH4T R34SON4BL3

CA: wwhat can i say im a pretty reasonable guy

GC: H4!

GC: 4ND H3R3 1 W4S TH1NK1NG TH4T YOUR S3NS3 OF HUMOR D13D 1N 4NG3L TR41N1NG

CA: that wwasnt a joke

GC: 4ND 4NOTH3R! SOUR GR4P3S OV3R H3R3 1S ON 4 ROLL!

CA: ugh just meet me there in half an hour

CA: thatll givve us enough time to make it to prospit if need be

GC: TRUST M3 ON TH1S

GC: 1TS B3ST 1F YOU GO

\--gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased pestering caligulasAquarium [CA]\--

With those messages fresh, you try to figure out a plan of action. As the fentanyl has been steadily wearing off since your stunt yesterday, it’s hard to stand, and you feel like you have to remedy that. The only pain medication left in the house is weak over-the-counter stuff that simply won’t suffice, and even though you’ve been getting around decently on crutches, you won’t be able to offer any protection besides a gun if you need to. After staring at yourself in the mirror for a minute or two, just thinking, you come up with a solution.

You go inside the hologenerator and pull up an interactive physical therapy module. After doing some searches and messing with the settings, you’re pulled into a tutorial that shows you how to adjust your braces, making them take more of your weight. Currently, they’re set to 50% weight-bearing, and if you want to walk, that simply won’t do. You’re able to take them up to 85%, which is higher than they’ve ever been, and when you stand it still hurts but not as much. You find that you can walk across the room, the aches you’ve become accustomed to the only pain present; it’s a nice change from the occasional white-hot stab you’d get in your knees and ankles. It’ll probably hurt more and more as you walk, so you decide to take it easy and head out.

Your dad has the car so you call a cab and it’s waiting for you on the curb when you come out. You tell it to stop by Angel headquarters and it’s there in a minute. After putting on the practical uniform, you outfit yourself with a splicer and silencer, since if Terezi is right, things might get a little dicey. Heading back to the cab quickly, you drive to the park.

The Burbs prides itself on greenery. Here, not just things that are shiny and expensive speak of affluence—anyone rich enough to get their hands on a plant will do so. They’re displayed prominently, hanging from windows of townhouses and spread across rooftops as gardens, because the Furthest Ring has no greenery. The only forest is that of concrete and steel, not even weeds daring to grow in the cracks between sidewalk panels. Plants died during the war, and the seeds that were saved were mostly funneled into the agriculture division that controls the inside of the plateau, growing food for the entire population. What wasn’t edible was funneled into this park, which is constantly watched to make sure people don’t steal any cuttings or seeds.

When your father was young, the floor of the park was covered with thick grass. Now there is only dirt, because a virus killed it all about three decades ago, but it didn’t reach the trees. The landscape architects compensated the lack of grass by growing more trees: the branches of oaks and pines and cypresses and birches filter the sunlight as you walk the path to a bench under one of the largest oaks in the park.

You can see Terezi from hundreds of feet away because of her garish outfit—red and teal work together to make your eyes want to vomit. Her cane taps on her boot rhythmically, not quite antsy or irked but obviously impatient. She doesn’t turn to look at you when you sit down on the bench next to her, but you’re not offended because she’s blind as shit and it doesn’t matter whether or not she turns her empty stare on you or not.

Level Sevens are known for their abuse of the senses, messing with them (or heightening them, as some would phrase it) until something goes wrong. The Pyropes in particular seem to have a rough go of it, seeing as Terezi isn’t the only one missing something; Latula cannot smell, and their mother lacks all but the barest sense of touch. The youngest Pyrope’s blindness doesn’t seem to be much of a handicap to her, though: her hearing tells her where everything is in relation to her, she can taste colors and shapes in the air, and (rumor has it) she can even read by licking the page. All of those things seem impossible to you, and unsanitary to boot, but Terezi is so perceptive and alert that you have to believe them.

“No crutches today?” she asks innocently, and you wonder how she knew you’ve been using them, especially since she hadn’t known you’d been injured until you told her.

“Can’t risk them,” you say, and she rolls her eyes under her red glasses, the motion entirely for your benefit. _See how much you’ve annoyed me?_ she tries to convey. You make a face back at her, and you don’t know if she picks up on it.

“You’re late,” she notes.

You retort, “Hardly,” slumping back on the bench and stretching your legs in front of you. Having them out straight makes your knees feel better. “Now come on, tell me what you were afraid to before. I’ve got a splicer on me so I’m sure no one is listening.”

She grins widely for some reason. “Oh Eridan, you know I’m never afraid.” You snort, but she continues, “Remember the magic cue ball?”

“Magic isn’t real,” you say as a reflex, and her eyebrows raise. Sighing, you relent, “Okay fine, whatever you say. Go on.”

“Where’s your sense of whimsy?” she laughs. The sound is grating, and you’re not amused. “Anyway, surprise, it isn’t actually a cue ball. It just _looks_ like one, or so I’m told.”

“No fucking shit, Pyrope.”

“And,” she continues like you hadn’t interjected, “Vriska is still looking for it. Apparently Scratch extended her deadline, so I thought we were in the clear, but apparently whatever he’s doing hit a road block and she needed to be kept out of the way for longer. What sucks is that she knows who has it now. The owner has been staying in her apartment for almost two weeks, because the security is impenetrable and she knows Vriska can’t get to her there, but she’s decided to leave tonight, completely against my advice.”

“Why would she do that?” you question.

“She’s tired of hiding. She thinks she can use the cue ball for some good and with tensions as high as they are, she doesn’t think she can wait any longer. Scratch’s prolonged use of Vriska could last as long as he wants it to and until she’s called off, the owner can’t go anywhere. The second Vriska gets to her, the cue ball is certainly done for!”

“Why is it so important that Scratch doesn’t get his hands on it?” you ask. “Hell, what even _is_ it?”

“It’s what lets us communicate with Jade.” Her tablet beeps before she can continue, and she checks it, cursing. “The dinner just started. She made it safely, but Vriska could show up whenever she wants. We need to go.”

“I still don’t get why this is relevant to dinner at Prospit,” you say, but you still rise as she does.

Terezi gets this look on her face that makes you feel like the biggest moron in the entire world. You swear she actually _is_ staring straight at you as she says slowly, “Eridan. How do you not get it?” Before you can get indignant words out, she says, “Rose Lalonde is the owner of the cue ball.”

 

* * *

 

Though Prospit isn’t all gussied up for a gala, it’s still a much nicer restaurant than you’re used to down here. Rose’s reservation was for 6:00pm and when you arrive just a single minute late, Rose is already there, and the hostess escorts you to the table. She stands, leaving a pale lavender clutch in her chair as she takes two steps to close the distance between her and Kanaya. Taking the taller girl’s hand, Rose kisses the back of it in an antiquated gesture that makes you melt a little from the sweetness. She goes on to shake everyone else’s hand, leaving you for last and giving your hand an extra squeeze. There’s some history between your gazes, thinking of old psychology and sociology classes and times where you’d practically have to drag Eridan away from her after she riled him up. Though you preferred Rose to her brother Dave, you always did think she was a bit much.

“I’m delighted you all could make it,” Rose says as she sits. “I take it Kanaya has told you about our relationship?”

“Of course,” Kanaya says, spots of red appearing on her high cheekbones. Your eyebrows shoot up because _no_ , you weren’t told!

Everyone else at the table seems to know, somehow. They appear to be tentative about it, but no one looks taken aback. “Good,” Rose says with a small laugh. “Glad I don’t have to explain.”

A waiter comes by to distribute menus and take drink orders. Prospit is apparently known for their tea, but tea was always Eridan’s thing, not yours, so you just get water. Most of the table gets a cup, though, save for Karkat. Rose keeps the conversation to light topics until your drinks are brought and dinner ordered, Porrim asking Rose questions in an attempt to get to know her better, but once the menus have been taken it seems she’d like to get down to business.

“Dirk would have liked to be here as well, but his presence would have drawn more attention than mine,” Rose says. She scans the table before turning towards you. “Feferi, where is your shadow?”

“What?” you ask bemusedly, tilting your head slightly to the side.

Clicking her tongue, Rose directs a look to the empty chair at your left before clarifying, “Eridan. Last I heard he was coming, and he is past fashionably late at this point.”

“He was being an idiot, so I told him he couldn’t attend,” Kankri says, leaving out that Eridan’s special brand of idiocy included a near-shooting.

“Oh,” Rose intones, brow twitching slightly. “Well, that’s a shame,” she says, subtly taking her tablet out of the clutch on her lap. She hardly even glances down at it as she texts. “I apologize for my rudeness, for some reason that made me remember I left the oven on. Dave’s home so he can take care of it.”

It’s a bad cover up, but it flows so truthfully out of her lips that you want to believe it. However, Kanaya’s concerned look confirms your suspicions that something else is going on. “Are you sure you don’t want to go check on it?” she asks.

Lips thinning for a moment, Rose nods once steadily. “I’m certain. It’s too bad that Eridan cannot be here, I was looking forward to seeing an old… friend.”

Rose and Eridan were never friends, you know for sure. It’s probably why she paused before selecting that word. If anything they were frenemies; a conversation between the two of them would consist of Rose stating an opinion that Eridan obviously disagreed with, and he’d snap back. When they’d met back in the first days of your schooling, he’d held immediate respect for her, as they were the same level on the GMS, but then it turned out she was a passive aggressive little terror that loved to light his fuse and watch him go off. He _fascinated_ her, she told you once in middle school, and for a while you thought that meant she _liked_ him, but since she made no attempt to get any closer to him, you abandoned that idea. You’d honestly had a small hope that maybe they’d get together, because that was during the time where Eridan started spending more and more time with Vriska, and you did _not_ like some of the rumors you were hearing about the two of them. Between the girls Eridan hung out with (other than you), Rose was definitely the better influence, even if she could be strange.

“You knew Eridan?” Karkat questions, bringing your mind back to the table.

“I’d say that I _know_ Eridan, since as far as I know, he has not been killed since the last time you saw him.” She takes a sip of her tea. “I have never met anyone else who possessed such extreme arrogance and terrible self-esteem without one of those being a farce. Eridan Ampora is truly a paradox.”

“These days, I’d say he’s mostly just got the bad self-esteem,” you say sadly.

She shrugs daintily. “Perhaps he should. He’s an asshole.”

“He’s working on it,” you say, slightly irked. “Anyway, when was the last time you saw him? He hasn’t mentioned running into you, and he’s changed a lot in the last three years.”

“You really think he tells you everything?” Rose asks, quirking an eyebrow. “I do admit, I haven’t seen him since the demonstration gala, and we did not have the chance to speak there. Before that, well…” She thinks for a moment. “I remember sharing a history class with him in our final year of secondary schoolfeeds. How is he? I heard he suffered quite the injury.”

Sighing, you reply, “He did. He’s working on that, too.”

“Send him my best,” Rose says before turning to address the table at large. “As you all have probably realized, this is not just a dinner to introduce myself as Kanaya’s girlfriend, though I am glad we’re finally able to chat properly.” She flashes a smile to Kanaya. “I’ve come to you with a bit of a proposal.”

“About what?” Porrim asks, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s on the defensive.

“I believe you’re all doing good work here,” Rose says, and you can tell the kindness she’s putting on is because she’s soon going to say something they won’t like. “You’ve inspired many people, including me. Despite this, I doubt this could end any way but badly. You will not get what you want, because your words will not have more impact than they already have.”

“I didn’t agree to this to have my methods _insulted_ —” Kankri says, affronted.

“I apologize if I seemed harsh, but you did not let me finish,” Rose says. Kanaya’s looking more and more nervous by the second. “ _Here_. I was going to say that your words cannot impact any more people _here_.”

“Well, where the fuck else would we go?” Porrim questions, snorting. “Pasadena’s a drug-ridden movie star hell, and Houston is just as bad as here.”

“I have something in my possession,” Rose explains, putting her folded hands on the table in front of her, “that will let you communicate with people not _from_ here. The transmitter has an incredibly broad reach, and I think if we do this at the right time, you can go somewhere and rally where your words will _truly_ make a difference.”

“They’re making a difference here, whether you think so or not,” Kankri snaps, getting impatient. “Going a city-state or two over won’t matter at all.”

“Kankri, please, just _listen_ ,” Kanaya tries to defend Rose. “You’re not hearing what she’s saying—”

They squabble, Rose staying quiet, and this is the first time since meeting the girl that you’d consider Rose’s disposition awkward. _Not here,_ you ruminate, turning Rose’s words over in your head. Thinking back to a day months ago, you remember Aradia. You remember a monorail ride to the wall surrounding Canaveral. You remember looking over a wasteland and seeing nothing, and you remember Aradia’s words:

_“There’s a whole other world out there, Feferi. And this one might have to fall apart to get us there.”_

An obnoxious voice cuts in, “Is this a bad time?”

A surprised needle jabs its way into your chest. Turning, you see Vriska, lounging with her arms draped on the back of Rose’s chair. Her navy blue coat sweeps to her knees, the sleeves falling down so her metal arm gleams almost as much as her predatory grin.

“Yes,” Rose says neutrally, staring straight ahead. “It is.”

“Too bad!” Vriska exclaims. “God, I can’t believe it took you _this_ long to leave your apartment. I’ve been checking on it for days, y’know? I guess the busy Miss Rose Lalonde couldn’t be fucking bothered to make it easy on me for once.”

“Stop rambling. I will not give it to you,” Rose says, calm.

Snorting, Vriska leans in closer. “Nah, you’re going to, because Scratch’ll kill me if you don’t and I don’t really want to die today. That’d be such a fucking drag, you don’t even know. C’mon, Rose, you know I can just kill you and take your keys, so why resist? Make it easier on both of us and just take me back to your place so we can get the ball rolling.”

“Get _away_ from her!” Kanaya demands, looking ready to rise out of her seat and push Vriska away herself. “You’re in no position to threaten _anyone_ right now, seeing as there are six of us and one of you.”

“Not in a good position to make threats, huh?” Vriska taunts. In one swift, fluid motion, she pulls a gun from inside of her coat and pushes it against the back of Kanaya’s head. The sitting girl tenses; you see her green eyes blow wide and her lips part. Porrim rockets up from her seat across from her sister, hands slamming on the table, while Kankri grabs her arm desperately to keep her in place. Vriska’s mechanical grip on the gun tightens as she sharply says, “Hey! Don’t move! I have plenty of hostages here so it’s not like losing this one will matter much. See? Now it’s six people against one with a gun. I’d make a bet on those odds.”

“Vriska,” Rose says, still sounding completely composed even though you can see that her face has gone very pale. “You _really_ don’t want to do this.”

“This is the one you’re fucking, right?” Vriska responds nonchalantly with a side of snark, putting her free hand on her hip. “It would be hard to find another thump this pretty, I’ll give you that.”

“Let her go.” Rose’s voice is low, lethal.

As this goes on, your right hand slowly wraps around the handle of the knife on your napkin. Sure, it’s a butter knife, not really suited for throwing at someone, but if you could just wedge it between two of the metal links of Vriska’s prosthetic arm, maybe she wouldn’t be able to use it.

“I saw that, Feferi,” Vriska says condescendingly, not even looking at you. She’s currently having a staring match with Porrim. “You won’t be able to make it to me before someone’s dead, so you should put that down.”

You let go and move your hand back down to your lap, pursing your lips. You hope someone who she’s paying less attention to can take her down.

 

* * *

 

It takes too long to get to Prospit—the cab took about twice as much time as usual to show up, even though the one that dropped you off had just left—and the whole way to the restaurant, Terezi is texting, licking the screen every time her tablet beeps. It’s pretty goddamn gross, but Terezi doesn’t comment on your quiet noises of disgust. “Who’re you talking to?” you question on the way down in the elevator.

“Possible back-up,” she says simply. Pressing her for more information gets you nowhere.

When you arrive, people are being subtly evacuated from the scene. You recognize the owner (a short, broad man in his early fifties with some of the palest skin you’ve ever seen) talking to some patrons who are being turned away. He seems apologetic, but the couple is still huffy as they strut down the street. Altering your course a little, you lightly grab Terezi’s elbow to change her trajectory; she yanks out of your grasp almost immediately, but still stays next to you.

“Hello, sir!” she greets the owner, unleashing a grin that consists of way too many teeth. It’s more of a warning than an expression of happiness. “There wouldn’t happen to be a tall blonde girl with a metal arm terrorizing some of your customers, would there?”

He looks taken aback, his thin eyebrows leaping towards his bald scalp, but then he sees the Angel insignia on your uniform and says, “Please get her out of here.”

You vaguely remember Prospit’s layout from the demonstration gala, when you showed up half-delirious with pain, so when you enter, you immediately guide Terezi to the side, out of the main view of the dining area and in a hallway. She once again pulls away, snapping under her breath, “Stop _grabbing_ me!”

“I grab everyone, get used to it!” you hiss back. She practically snarls at you, and you’re starting to regret this whole thing. “Look, I have a silencer on me. As long as Vriska has her attention elsewhere, she can’t use her vision eight-fold to zero in. I want you to stay outside the dining area—there are archways all around and once we get close I’ll be able to hear her talking, so I’ll know which way her back is facing.”

“I’ll know it better than you!” she interjects, false cheer back in place.

“Fine, whatever,” you huff. “Anyway, you can stay behind an arch and keep an eye on her. I won’t ask you to come out and make a scene unless she starts to notice me. You understand?”

She salutes. “Yep! I understand that your shitty plan doesn’t have an endgame!”

You let out a breath between your teeth. Your knees are really starting to ache just standing here. “Okay, you want an endgame? Fine. I’m gonna rip off her fake arm and throw it away, then incapacitate her and take her back to the Burbs. Maybe I’ll even chuck her off the side of the plateau for good measure. Happy?”

Terezi rolls her eyes. “Brutal. Just get rid of the powerarm and I’ll take it from there, okay?”

Scowling, you say, “We’ll see how it goes. You won’t be able to find me once I’m silenced—”

“I will know _exactly_ where you are, Ampora,” she informs you gleefully.

“No, you won’t.” Your grimace, if possible, gets deeper. “Silencers kill sound, too, not just sight.”

She laughs quieter than you’ve ever heard her. “I’ll just have to smell you, then.”

You make a face. “Too bad I didn’t wear any cologne.”

“That would just disguise your scent, anyway,” she says flippantly. You don’t respond, choosing instead to turn on your silencer and initiate the plan.

Continuing down the hall you’d initially pulled Terezi down, you cut through the empty kitchen and come out on the other side, then slip silently into the open hall surrounding the dining area. As predicted, you can hear Vriska’s voice pretty clearly. You start forward before Terezi does, and she darts behind you, dashing past archways and stopping at the wall between each. When you think you’re good, you’re about to risk going out when there’s a firm grip on your arm and you nearly jump out of your skin.

Seems Terezi was able to still “see” you after all. She shakes her head, holds up one finger, then points to the next arch over. You carefully remove your arm from her grasp, because if you yanked out of it like she was prone to do she might think you didn’t understand. Stealthily, you go one arch over, and she flattens herself against the wall there, nodding once to you. Closing your eyes and taking a steadying breath, you poke your head into the dining area and get your first good look at the scene.

Vriska’s back is facing directly towards you. It’s the best position you could get—if you’d gone in when you wanted to, it still probably would’ve been fine, but she might’ve been able to pick you up in her peripheral. She’s standing right between Rose and Kanaya, holding a pistol to the latter girl’s head.

Fuck.

Fef is on Kan’s other side, turned towards Vriska like she’s ready to pounce at her but won’t risk it. As you slink deeper into the room, you wait to see if someone picks up on your presence.

You can tell that Fef senses you first. Her ability to detect Angels has always been uncanny, partially due to you—in the Burbs there are a lot more situations where hidden Angels can be sensed, and if you knew where one was, you’d always point it out to her. She’s almost as good as you at reading a room now, and she’s also smart enough not to get too distracted and blow your cover. Her attention is back on Vriska and Kanaya before hardly straying.

If Vriska’s prosthetic arm is anything like your fingers, there’ll be two buttons to detach it, and as you get closer, you see that they’re on the arm itself rather than on the part of the implant that’s under her skin like yours are. It’s better for you anyway, because that way you can see where to grab. This’ll hopefully be easy.

Once you’re within ten feet of her, you see her shoulders tense. “There’s someone behind me,” she says, almost to herself. Louder, she questions, “Who’s behind me?”

“I am.”

You don’t turn to see Terezi enter the room, cane tapping on the ground in front of her. She slides between tables and chairs to make her way over, changing her trajectory to sort of loop around and draw attention away from the spot you’re standing, and she’s halfway across the room before Vriska recovers and snaps, “Stay where you are, and throw your cane aside where you can’t reach it.”

You hear Kankri scoff in revulsion. What he doesn’t know is that she can navigate fine without it—the plus side to it is that she has a hidden blade in the tip.

Terezi throws the cane across the room and it clatters on the ground closest to Karkat. Vriska continues, “What—” She seems to lose some of her bravado there, and something a bit more vulnerable enters her voice when she asks, “What’re you doing here, Terezi?”

“Keeping you from doing something stupid, of course!” Ter responds, standing firmly with her arms folded behind her back. You hope she was smart enough to have another weapon hidden on her belt. Her smile is doleful rather than delighted. “You don’t need another feud; your first one ruined enough. Just put the gun down and walk away.”

“Oh, you _would_ want me to stop,” Vris says with a low chuckle. You start moving towards her again, even more slowly and carefully. “You were never as afraid of Scratch as you should’ve been.”

“What he will do to you,” Terezi says slowly, “won’t even compare with what _I’ll_ do to you if you go through with this.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he never loved you like I did,” Terezi declares, sounding blank despite the emotional impact of her words. “He’s known you as a maniacal, fucked up _loser_ that is, somehow, one of the few people that could mess up his whole operation.”

“Damn right I could mess everything up!” Vriska says quickly. You’re just a foot or two away, now. You can hardly breathe from how tense you are. “It’s good to be dangerous, y’know? I have a _reputation_.”

“We were sisters, once,” Terezi says, solemn. “You’re my responsibility.”

“‘Your responsibility’,” she quotes mockingly as you maneuver yourself into place. Your chest is inches from her back, your hand hovering just above where shoulder and metal meet. “You’ve refused to talk to me for _years_!”

As she screeches that last word, you pounce, your left hand mashing down on the two release buttons on either side of the arm as your right grabs Vriska’s wrist, yanking her arm and the gun up. As you take a few steps back with the prosthetic in tow, the gun goes off, shooting (thankfully) at the ceiling. You try not to think about how it was almost Kan’s head. Vriska snarls, turning her gaze on you, and her eight-fold eye zeroes right in on you. “You fucking bastard!” she roars before jumping at you.

You’re able to hold the arm up and out of her reach—height advantages are great—and when you think she’s going to go for the arm again, she reaches behind you and rips the silencer out of its pouch, chucking it away. You don’t react, still keeping the prosthetic up, and she lets out a slow breath, not jumping for it again.

“Don’t look so smug, you son of a bitch,” she growls. Now that her weapon is gone, you can see the uncertainty in her expression. She’s almost afraid, but not quite. “You cheated.”

Vriska lunges at you and you immediately angle yourself so it’s harder for her to hit your legs, since she knows they’re your weak spots. However, you’re not guarding your groin, and her foot smacks between your legs.

You hardly flinch, flinging her arm and the gun across the room before she can think of what to do next. Before she makes a dash for it, she mocks, “I always knew you didn’t have any balls, Ampora.”

Through gritted teeth, you say, “The uniform comes with a cu—!” but don’t finish because she’s swinging around and slamming her heel into your knee, shoving you past her with what remains of her left arm, and grabbing the rifle off your back with her right. Your sentence dissolves into a strangled yell as you fall hard on your arm, barely able to brace yourself with your other hand.

That stupid conniving terrible _bitch_!

The brace kept your knee from dislocating, but the joint still got hit with a lot of force and it makes you feel ill to even think about putting weight on it in. You’ll just… stay on the floor for a little while. Yeah.

Instead of staring at the ceiling, you decide to glance at Fef. She’s looking at you worriedly, and you decide to flash her a thumbs-up, even though you are in a decidedly thumbs-down state.

“Why did I ever think you would be decent protection, Ampora?” Terezi laments, sighing heavily. Vriska has turned your rifle on her, but you’d bet the remains of your savings that Vris would never shoot her.

“I told you I was on desk!” you snarl through your teeth.

“ _Sit down_!” Vriska barks suddenly, whipping the gun back on Kanaya; Kank, Por, and Fef sink back down into their seats. Nudging Kan with the barrel of the rifle, she says, “Except for you. Kanaya, right? You, me, and Lalonde are gonna head to the Burbs, and none of you are going to interfere unless you all want to see what the inside of this girl’s mind looks like, okay?!”

“You,” you say with force, “have hit an all new level of crazy. I know that fear can make you do crazy shit, but… wow.”

“Shut it,” Vris snaps, “I’m not afraid. I’m _way_ past that! I just want this done and out of the way so I can have my life back. You should understand, Eridan. You’ve been getting the notes too, you know how _he_ invades your entire fucking life, have some _empathy_ you fucking sociopath.”

“If Scratch really wanted this thing,” you reason, “he’d have it.”

“You don’t get it!” she still tries to rebut. “Scratch _needs_ _me_ —”

“Scratch is _dead_!”

The declaration from the newcomer is met with silence. Aradia Megido pushes a chair out of the way as she comes in through the actual entrance archway to the room, chest heaving and sweat gathering on her forehead. “Your fetch-quest is over. Scratch is dead and he’s not coming back.”

Vriska’s mouth, which was gaping open, snaps shut. “You’re a fucking liiiiiiiiar, Megido,” she taunts.

“His head is mounted on the sign for Cascade,” Aradia says, and your lip curls in disgust. “Go see for yourself.”

Since Vris is distracted, now would be the perfect time to make your next move, but when you try to bend your right knee in an attempt to rise, you almost throw up from the pain. Great. Everything is fine.

Ugh, you guess you can at least sit up and look slightly less pathetic. You push yourself upright, trying very hard not to move the leg that got kicked. Vris doesn’t notice, too busy staring balefully at the ghost of all her culminated fuck-ups.

“Okay, let me humor you,” Vriska says. “Maybe Scratch _is_ dead, and you’re being the nice little messenger. But now that I know about this cue ball thing, who says that _I_ don’t want it? I’m already here, I already have leverage.” She pokes Kan in the back of the head with the gun, and you see Kan’s knuckles go even whiter as she clenches the underside of her seat. Shrugging languidly, Vris continues, “Why _shouldn’t_ I just take it? Scratch terrorized me for years about it and no one can take that back!”

Ray has very little sympathy, warning, “If you don’t leave, I’ll bring the Felt down on you.”

Vriska laughs a high, almost manic sound. “Wait, you want me to believe that _you’re_ the new leader of the Felt. That’s fucking _rich_!”

“No, it’s not me.” Ray looks shaken. “It’s Damara.”

You almost expect the older Megido to make a dramatic entrance, but no one else emerges. Vriska only looks shocked for a second before covering, “You know, I always thought she had a killer’s look about her. Maybe it was the crazy eyes. Whatever, someone’ll off her soon anyway.”

Fef has kept most of your attention since you landed on the floor, splayed out between her and Kan, but for the first time since sitting up, you turn your gaze on the other girl. It seems she’s been staring at you, waiting for you to notice her, and she raises her eyebrows as Aradia snaps something in defense of her sister. “ _On three_ ,” she mouths at you while trying to keep her jaw still so Vriska won’t see her moving. You have no idea what _you’re_ supposed to do in her plan, but you think you can figure something out once she does something. “ _One… two…”_

On three, Kan pushes her chair back to slam Vris in the gut, and you do what you can, which is grabbing Vriska’s ankle and yanking in the opposite direction from which she stumbles. She lands on the ground flat on her back, and as Kanaya runs around the side of the table to her sister only to be shoved behind Por and Kank, Vris swings her arm around to aim your own rifle at your chest and pull the trigger.

When nothing happens, you’re confident enough to grab the barrel with both hands and yank it out of her grasp. Instead of aiming it at her like you probably should, you use it as a cane to get yourself on your feet. You snap, “Unlike _some_ people, I always practice proper gun-handling techniques, which means I _use the fucking safety_.”

Vriska’s lip curls indignantly as she pushes herself up one-handed. Terezi approaches Vriska, picking up her cane on the way over and standing beside her. Rose and Fef come to flank you, Fef putting a hand on your elbow like she wants to support you, then dropping it when you don’t lean into her touch like you usually do. Locking your right knee, you hold your rifle properly and manage to keep standing, so you lazily turn it on Vris, just to keep her in line.

“Now if you’re done throwing a tantrum,” Rose says neutrally, “let me reiterate that Scratch is dead and you no longer have a need for the cue ball. I would like to be able to leave my apartment safely, so I implore you to abandon this little power-trip and leave me alone.”

“You don’t understand!” she still tries to feebly counter. “What the fuck am I supposed to _DO_ now?”

“Lalonde,” Terezi says, “please escort our friends out. I’ll meet with you later.”

“But—!” Vriska tries to counter, but Ter stomps on her foot. The other girl doesn’t flinch, but she shuts up.

Throwing Terezi a strange look that you can’t read and she can’t see, Rose make a hand motion towards the archway closest to the exit. Porrim is already striding away, Kanaya’s arm trapped in a vice-grip, and the rest of them follow. Fef stays behind with you, even though you motion for her to go with your chin. When you look away from her, you see that Aradia is gone, too.

Vris looks empty now, letting her shoulders slump as she stares at the floor. “Are you trying to tell me this was all for _nothing_?” There’s still bite in her tone.

“No. You dropped the idea of taking the cue ball faster than I thought you would.” Ter clears her throat somewhat awkwardly. “I’m proud of you, Vriska.”

Snorting lightly, she says, “Oh, that’s rich.” Despite the sarcastic words, she sounds emotional.

“If you want…” Terezi ventures, “I’ll give you back something you’ve lost.” When you glance at her, her lips are pursed, and she takes a deep breath through her nose. Melancholy is a strange shade for Terezi Pyrope. “Or at least, I’ll give you a _chance_ of regaining it.”

“What would that be?” Vriska counters, voice low.

“The Scourge Sisters,” she says quietly, her grip on her cane tightening, then loosening enough that it almost falls through her fingers. “I… I failed in keeping an eye on you before. I allowed you to continue being the same immature, sabotaging monster you were when we were thirteen. That was a mistake.” It looks like that pains her to admit; she hates to be wrong. “I was disgusted with you—and that disgust was very justified!—but I left you to your own devices, which let you go on unchecked.”

“I won’t be your responsibility,” Vris says through her teeth, clenching her fist. “You can’t fucking _change_ me, Pyrope—”

“I don’t want to change you. I want _you_ to change you. I want you to make the decision to… to take the high road! Let’s get a place somewhere, Vriska. We were always better together than we were apart, and even though I’ve spent the last four years hating you, I’ve also missed you. A lot. And I’m about out of anger.”

Vriska is trying hard to hold onto her own anger, but it doesn’t seem like she’s going to do any more threatening. You stop aiming your rifle at her, slinging it onto your back. As you do so, Fef leans close to you, whispering in your ear, “Do you need to sit down?”

“No,” you murmur back. Though you’re sore and your knee continues to smart, you’ll be okay.

Losing a little bit more composure, Vris says, “Could we just talk first? I know that I’ve fucked up, okay? But you’ve fucked up, too. And if you’re _offering_ ,” she takes some on some of her usual arrogance, “I gueeeeeeeess we could try all this again. As long as Eridan doesn’t try to stick his gun or his big nose in it.”

Surprised at being dragged into the conversation, you shrug almost helplessly. “Then don’t make me need to get involved. Learn some fucking civility.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you. Now give me my arm.”

“Figured you could get it for yourself.”

Her eyebrows raise. “You really want me to have that gun?”

The pistol is still caught in the arm’s metal grip. You realize her pointing that out is the closest thing to a peace offering you’ll ever get. “I’ll get it,” Fef says, moving away from you to where the arm was thrown. She’s unable to get the gun out of the clenched fist, so she brings it to you; she’s able to finagle it out as you hook your prosthetic fingers around the arm’s digits and yank. You might’ve pulled a muscle in your hand as you did it, too. That metal hand has some fucking grip.

Vriska reattaches her arm and slings it around Terezi’s shoulder, grinning. “Back in business, huh?”

“Hopefully,” Terezi says, still wary of her proposal but hesitantly optimistic. Her tone switches to haughty as she requests, “Mr. Ampora, could you escort us back to the Burbs?” Vriska snorts and looks back at you, rolling her eyes. You shoot her a look, because you know you’re only being asked because you’re security just in case Vriska tries anything. (You doubt she will. Her pride has suffered enough for tonight.)

Fef tries to hand you the pistol, but you say, “Keep it for now. Mind the safety.” Vriska probably has a billion other guns at her disposal. Anyway, that one is easy enough to hide without a weapons permit. It’s about time you got her one of those; you could probably even force one out of Cronus, making it easier to acquire than usual.

Flicking the safety on, Fef tucks it in the waistband of her skirt. “Come back after,” she says, her blue eyes big and pleading.

“Okay,” you allow.

She hurries out as Vris and Ter continue talking in low voices, and you tell them to get the show on the road as you go pick up your discarded silencer. As you keep a hand on the stock of your gun and take a look around, trailing behind the two girls, you notice someone sitting with their back against the wall in the hallway of arches, near the exit.

The other two don’t see Aradia, but your eyes meet. She’s waited, you realize, to see what would happen to Vriska. What punishment she would get. Ray sees Vriska and Terezi, back together and mending bridges, and she doesn’t look happy about it.

You break eye contact, continuing out of the restaurant. You don’t hear Ray move to join you. She just keeps sitting there for some reason, disappointed.

A chill runs up your spine as the Scourge Sisters laugh. It’s honestly more of a cackle, but a good-natured one. You’re cautious of most things these days. Unbidden, a phrase echoes in your mind.

_Tick tock._

 

* * *

 

Over the next hour, the group winds down. When you reach the Maryam-Vantas apartment, Porrim is still hugging Kanaya, murmuring gibberish into her sister’s hair. Kankri goes to shower, saying the cold water will calm him down, and you’re left with Karkat.

“Well that was a shitshow,” he says bluntly, grabbing ahold of your sleeve and dragging you to the couch. The gun is burning a hole in your hip. “I’m just glad no one ate a bullet, damn.”

“I thought the most we’d have to deal with is Rose trying to psychoanalyze everyone,” you admit. “Wow.”

For once, Karkat is silent. Eventually he snorts to himself, picking up the TV remote. “What better to calm our restless spirits than soothing, mind-numbing entertainment,” he says, trying to imitate his brother. It was weak, but you still giggle as he turns on the television. Porrim and Kanaya come to join you on the couch, squishing up against you. After a few channel changes, Porrim says, “Go back, I think that was _Scarlet Silicon_.”

“Ooh,” Karkat intones, immediately flipping back.

“What is it?” you ask, resting your elbows on your knees and placing your chin in the cradle of your hands.

Three incredulous stares move to you. “You’ve never seen the Copernian trilogy?” Karkat questions. You shake your head. “Fuck, that’s a national travesty. I’m sure I can find a rip of all of them on the internet. Are they not _popular_ in the Burbs?”

You shrug. “I can’t think of anyone mentioning them.”

Karkat goes on a rant about how they’re the best movies of your time, and you listen, smiling and nodding in the right places. Once he’s exhausted himself, you notice that Porrim and Kanaya are in better spirits after getting to hear him sound like his normal self. Honestly, it kind of helped you too. Maybe that was the point. When he proposes a movie marathon, you request, “Let’s wait for Eridan. He’s supposed to come down.”

“And let’s wait for Kankri to leave, too,” Porrim says, snorting. “We don’t want him to stand Meulin up because he’s been sucked into _Honeycombed Helium_.”

Eyebrows raising, you ask, “Kankri has a date with Meulin?”

“Yep,” Porrim says, popping her lips on the P. “She asked him out the yesterday and he said he had tonight free after Prospit. Usually he has an early morning shift at the hospital but he moved it to the afternoon for once.”

As if on cue, the target of your conversation comes into the room. It’s been a while since you’ve seen Kankri look anything but exhausted, but he seems alert now, excited. He appears crisp in a pair of slacks, a dark long-sleeved sweater with the collar of a dress shirt sticking up out of it, and shiny shoes. His hair looks more artfully mussed than usual, and you see Porrim smirk, satisfied. She gets up to meet him, giving him a hug. (You guess having a family member almost get shot makes you more affectionate.) There’s a fire in his eyes that resembles how he looked whenever he spoke at a meeting, back when it was just a couple hundred people in a dingy bar, and you know that having a growing movement on his hands has made him tired, worn down. He looks more alive than you ever remember seeing him.

“I’m meeting her at Midnight Runners,” he says, as Porrim straightens his collar. “She wanted to play pool but since we want to avoid Cascade, she’ll have to settle for poker. Then we’ll walk and find some place to eat; she said she wanted it to be spontaneous.”

“She likes fish, even the fake shit that won’t bankrupt you,” Porrim reminds him, and he nods. “Have a good time, Kanny. You deserve it.”

Leaving a sloppy kiss on his cheek—he makes a face and brushes it off, then wipes his hand on her shirt—Porrim nods slightly. His eyes become more serious and he nods back. Turning to the three of you on the couch, he asks, “What are you kids doing tonight?”

“‘Kids’, he says,” Karkat mocks. “Like you’re not twenty-two.”

“Feferi’s never seen the Copernian trilogy,” Kanaya says. “We’re going to fix that. Eridan is supposed to come over, as well.”

“Have fun,” he says warmly.

“You too!” you say. Karkat just rolls his eyes.

Porrim drags over a chair from the bar once Kankri’s gone, and Eridan shows up about ten minutes later, this time with his crutches like a good listener. It looks like a weight’s been taken off his shoulders as he comes and sits on Karkat; the smaller boy squawks, waving his arms then trying to shove him off, and Eridan smirks as he falls onto you and the armrest. “Sup,” he says, face buried in the couch.

You pat his butt, just because you can. “Up! Come on, you’re heavy!”

He pouts. “Am not!”

“The movie,” Karkat urges. “We’re not going to finish all three by sunrise if we don’t start now.”

“Everything alright up there?” you ask Eridan, ignoring Karkat.

Eridan nods. “They’re doing their own thing. I took them back to Terezi’s place, and she’ll message me if anything goes wrong. Rose was already long gone by the time we got up the elevator.” Turning to Karkat, he says, “Now what’s this drivel you’re talking about?”

Twenty minutes into the movie, someone pounds on the door. Kanaya pauses the TV as Porrim frowns, getting up from her seat and opening the door. “Holy shit,” you hear her say from around the corner, and all four of you get up, heading over. “Meulin, what—?”

Meulin is kneeling on the threshold, burying her face in Porrim’s leggings and sobbing like she’s just had a limb ripped off. Her mascara is weaving black rivers on her cheeks, covering her freckles, and you see how tightly her nails are digging into Porrim’s thighs. The older woman has her hands tangled in Meulin’s hair, trying to coax out what the problem is, asking where Kankri went, and all she does is shake her head and tremble.

You exchange a look with Eridan. Your expression is worried; his concern is tinged with something hard. Before you can ask him what’s wrong, he’s pursing his lips and walking over to Meulin, then kneeling down and firmly asking, “Where?”

She points.

Porrim pulls her up, and you have to help Eridan stand as well. You all make your way downstairs and onto the sidewalk. A crowd has gathered at the far end of the apartment complex. The murmuring can be heard from here. A siren whirrs in the distance.

With no warning, Porrim drops Meulin. She falls back to her knees in the street. Porrim takes off running, towards the crowd and towards whatever is hanging from the roof. Kanaya immediately takes off after her. Eridan grasps your wrist and tugs you along, walking fast but not running. Glancing over, you see that he grabbed Karkat, too. The three of you shove through the small crowd to find Porrim standing still with Kanaya just behind her, both of their eyes fixed on an object hanging from a rope.

In the low light, you can see that it’s a person. There is a small hole in his forehead that is slowly leaking blood as his body rotates sluggishly in the breeze. There’s enough rope hanging from the roof that he dangles to the second story of the building, his feet sagging to the empty space between balconies. His eyes are closed and his expression is serene. _What’s the point of the rope_? you think, feeling distanced. _He was obviously already dead when they tied the noose._

“Oh my God,” Karkat says. He can’t tear his eyes away. “Oh my fucking God.”

It doesn’t matter what killed him, really. All that matters is that Kankri Vantas is dead.

**END OF ACT II**


	24. INTERMISSION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super fast update, I know! I figured I'd put the intermissions up quickly, since the wound is still fresh :) Happy Valentine's Day, motherfuckers; have some more heartbreak.
> 
> Usually, we have Eridan and Feferi. During the first intermission, we had Meenah.
> 
> And now, we have Porrim.

She comes to you when you’re twelve. You’re called to the main cathedral on the Archbishop’s massive estate, and you’re so terrified that you have somehow messed up and you’re going to be reprehensibly punished that you can’t speak when the woman meets you out front, taking your arm and leading you to an office behind the altar. The Archbishop isn’t present, thank God, but you recognize one of the older women in the room—she works in the foster program, where you’d been raised until you were eight years old and able to move into a cloister with some other girls near your age. There is a child in the arms of one of the adults; no, not a child ( _you’re_ a child) but a baby. She’s gnawing on the edge of her blanket, and she looks over at you with beautiful green eyes as the nun you know explains, “Porrim, this is your sister.”

“All of the women here are my sisters,” you say automatically.

She shakes her head. “No. Here, take her.” The nun holding her hands the girl off to you, and you’ve held many babies before, so you know how to support her head and make sure she’s comfortable. Immediately, with her blanket still in her mouth, she reaches up with one of her chubby fists to snatch a lock of your long, black hair. “This is Kanaya. She is your _biological_ sister.”

“But…” Your mouth dries up as you look down at the child with something akin to awe. “But that’s impossible.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head with a small smile. “It’s simply a _miracle_."

 

* * *

 

When she is three and you have just turned fifteen, _it_ happens. The Archbishop is _beyond_ angry—you’ve had to clean bloodstains from tiled floors before, when he was merely _mad_ —but this is unconscionable. He wants someone to blame for the injustice that he feels was done to him, and when you return to your bunkroom one night a week after _it_ happens and you realize all of your roommates have been culled, you take Kanaya and run.

Nuns don’t often desert the cloister. Like you, the majority of people taken in are orphans, with parents killed or arrested or simply irresponsible, and most are brainwashed into submissiveness, but you can’t afford to be meek now, not when Kanaya is still young enough to rely on you for almost everything. You spend two months on the street, staying far away from _his_ corner of the city and never hearing a word of the carnage he was causing in his own hallowed halls. It’s summer, which means you’re never in danger of freezing to death at night, but things you accumulate often get stolen and you keep whatever money you have hidden on your person at all times. You start working odd jobs in the less savory sector of town, and you find yourself having to hide Kanaya away in public bathrooms with the stalls locked because you don’t know what else to do with her, each time begging, “Please, _please_ just stay here until I come back.” She is obedient, spending hours at a time sitting on the lid of a toilet with nothing to do but think, and only a week after you begin working in the pleasure rooms at Cascade, a girl your own age learns of your predicament.

“My sister Aradia is also three,” Damara tells you one night during a break, passing you her blunt. You suck in the pleasure greedily, needing something to get you through these next few hours. “My mother and I work constantly. We leave her with a programmer during the day; he works from home. I’m sure he will take your sister too.”

She gives you the address and says she’ll call him to give him a heads up, and you show up the next afternoon an hour before your shift, Kanaya clinging to your hand. One man answers the door, seemingly surprised to see you, but then another comes up behind him. “Go to work, Tyndarren,” he says, smiling at him fondly. “She’s here for me.”

His name is Ledall Captor; he serves you warm tea with honey and you end up crying on his couch, spilling out your whole story and thanking him between every sentence. “I kept locking her in bathrooms,” you pant out between sobs, “and praying desperately that I would never come back to find that someone had taken her, or that one of _his_ people had gotten her—”

“Where are you living?” he asks quietly.

“Anywhere we can.”

“No apartment?”

You shake your head. “I’ve only been working steadily for a week, and I didn’t have a lot saved before we…” You swallow, not really wanting to go on.

“How much?”

You tell him, and he goes back into his bedroom and comes back with more bills than you’ve ever seen in one place. “Combined with your money, this will be enough to secure an apartment at El Palacio de los Bienaventurados for a month,” he says, pressing the rubber-banded wad into your shaking hands. “You can pay me back later, and you’ll have to make every other cent yourself, but you need a safe place for her.”

“Thank you,” you whimper, clutching the money to your chest with one hand and covering your face with the other. You do not ask him how he can give out sums like this—his own small apartment has stains on the walls and the furniture is almost falling apart—but you can’t even think of rejecting his kindness. “Thank you.”

You move into apartment 469 on the fourth floor of the building, and after three months and two more jobs piled onto your plate, you’re able to pay Ledall back. He goes missing two years later, as does his partner Tyndarren. Their oldest son (twelve-year-old Mituna, who called you in a panic, crying, “They’re gone, _they’re gone_!”) is determined to keep Sollux, but he moves out of the apartment and sells all of the computers and modems that weren’t taken. “My parents were up to no good,” he says dourly, but you hear the pride in his voice, too. “They’ll be watching those systems. I guess I’ll just have to start again from scratch.”

When Kanaya turns five, you’re finally able to stop selling yourself at Cascade, and you stick to your jobs at the body mods parlor and a fast food joint. Soon, you have enough money saved up to do cosmetology certification, and you’re able to quit both low-paying jobs to go somewhere that gives you more than both of those combined in exchange for cutting people’s hair and doing their nails, though it’s still not a whole lot of money. Kanaya has started going to school during the day and stays in a program afterwards so she doesn’t have to walk across the city by herself and come home to an empty apartment, and you settle into a steady rhythm. You know this peace cannot last.

 

* * *

 

You have just finished getting your vine-like tattoos when a boy starts showing up in front of the salon to try to shine people’s shoes. His glass jar is pathetically empty for the first few days, and you start making a habit of throwing a couple of bills into it, even though you don’t get your shoes shined (hell, you don’t think _anyone_ does, down here). One day, you talk to your manager to see if he can get a job in the back, sorting chemicals and cleaning supplies, but she just shakes her head.

Two months after he appeared, you see him one night not at his post, but hidden behind a dumpster and watching over a lump of trash bags and a single, worn blanket. “Hey, kid,” you call, heading over to him, and he goes rigid, “what’re you doing?”

“My name is Kankri,” he snaps, “not ‘kid’.” Then his eyes go wide as he averts his gaze to the ground, stuttering out, “I- I’m sorry, ma’am, I meant n-no disrespect—”

“Shh,” you say sharply, and the heap of blankets moves. “You try to shine people’s shoes outside the salon,” you try to confirm. He nods. You look around the area more—there are a few boxes with clothes and trinkets in them, stacked next to the dumpster, and there are old newspapers spread out on the ground so he doesn’t have to sit on the dirt. “How old are you, Kankri?”

“Seventeen,” he says boldly, and when you shoot him a look at says _don’t lie to me_ , he corrects himself sheepishly. “Twelve.”

The bundle of blankets coughs, and a small voice asks, “Who’s there?” without emerging.

“Shush, Karkat,” the kid says under his breath.

“How old is _he_?” you ask.

Kankri puts a hand on the pile. “Six.”

You release a long sigh, wishing you had enough money to spare that you could give him something more than just a few dollars here or there—like Ledall did for you—but you can’t. Making the decision before you can really think it through, you say, “Gather your shit. You’re coming home with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out he’s brilliant. The first few months, he keeps making insinuations that he’ll move out at any time, but you tell him to focus on school, and three years in he tells you he’s been invited to study at the University in the Burbs. You’re terrified for him, because you know they will eat him _alive_ , and you warily say, “Kankri, no one from down here has ever made it up there.”

“I’m going to be the first,” he boasts, and when you continue looking at him dubiously, he slumps, all of the fight has been taken from him. He’s not yet even the seventeen he’d claimed to be when you met him—he’s still over a year away—and he already thinks he can handle this.

“Don’t think I’m not proud of you, kid,” you sigh, walking over to him and wrapping your arms around him. He’s gotten taller since he was twelve, but you’re nearly six feet yourself and you can still barely tuck his head under your chin. “You’re the smartest damn boy on this stupid hunk of rock we call Canaveral. I’m…” you sigh, releasing him from your embrace and holding him by his shoulders at arm’s length. “I’m just _worried_ about you.”

“You don’t need to be,” he says, expression earnest. “I’m going to graduate from the University with a doctoral degree, and then I can start working to give you the kind of life you deserve.”

“Oh, Kankri,” you say softly, “you don’t owe me anything.”

“But,” he starts, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“ _You_ _are_ _family_ ,” you say slowly, emphasizing each word. “If… If doing this is going to make you happy, do it. Don’t let it destroy you, and don’t think you have to do it for me.”

He laughs a little, smiling for the first time in weeks. “I’ll be fine, Porrim,” he says, his voice just as quiet. “I always am.”

 

* * *

 

You find them motionless behind a dumpster, the same place you’d found Kankri years ago. He is with you when you flip over the lid, despite that being the only thing shield them from the rain, and Kankri crouches down, feeling for pulses. They’re two little girls this time—young. So young. Maybe four or five. Even with their sparse covering, they’re soaked to the bone, and it’s easy to see their bones, since they are so deeply malnourished. You wonder how long they’d survived on the streets like this.

(One’s been dead longer than the other, you think; one has more evidence of flies.)

Kankri sits back on his haunches, releasing a gargantuan sigh. He shakes his head, telling you what you already knew.

A small mercy is getting the bodies out of the rain, but this means putting them into the dumpster. You bless them, like you’d blessed other bodies back when you weren’t really you, and Kankri’s hand shakes where it’s resting on your shoulder.

Neither of you speak of this. All you do is hold hands on the way home.

 

* * *

 

“ _I hate her_ ,” Kankri snarls, throwing the door to your bedroom open. “She’s only doing better than me because she was _manufactured_ to; she’s had all of this _made_ for her, _handed_ to her, and I’ve practically had to _claw my way up that plateau with broken fucking fingers_ —”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” you coax, getting up from your bed and walking over to him.

“It’s _wrong_ ,” he bites, and it scares you to see unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. “And I’m _sick of it_. I knew when I went there they’d never accept me, and that was _okay_ ,” his voice breaks, “but for three years I’ve been doing better than the whole fucking _lot_ of them except for _one damned girl_ , and they still do everything they can to show me I don’t belong there, with _Meenah fucking Peixes_ leading the charge. It’s wrong,” he repeats, and the tears spill over. You reach out to him, but he sharply holds up a hand. “I’ve had enough. I’m going to stop it.”

“You’ve tried putting in complaints against her before,” you say, trying to sound sympathetic, “but they never do anything. What else can you do?”

He laughs bitterly. “I know I can’t change _her_. I need to change the entire fucking system.”

“Kankri,” you say somewhat jokingly, reaching out again, and this time he lets you put your hand on his shoulder, “you can’t become a geneticist _and_ a political insurgent.”

“I will try,” he says, sounding just as determined as he did when he first told you he was going to the University. “I can’t be the only one that’s sick of this.”

 

* * *

 

He cannot manage both his studies and his dreams; he drops out of the University a year later, and the decision nearly tore him in half, but he felt like it was something he had to do in order to really start making a plan for reform. He managed to get a good position interning at the hospital down here, and he’ll show those working there updated techniques from the Burbs and end up with a Ph. D the regular way in three or four years. You help him as much as you can, calling upon old friends—Mituna, Damara, and even Latula Pyrope, whose hair you started cutting once a month—to help him build his underground empire. He makes slow progress, sluggish only because he doesn’t want to attract much attention yet because you told him what happened to your dear friend Ledall Captor, and a week after your twenty-seventh birthday, your family grows a little bit more.

Eridan Actium and Feferi Caesar are clueless. It’s a month after Eridan nearly blinds himself when he asks, “Where can I get a streak in my hair like you have?”

Your eyebrows raise. “You want green?”

He shakes his head. “I was thinking violet.”

You consider him. He’s mouthy and impolite and curses like a sex worker. Most of the time, he looks at you almost suspiciously, and you don’t think he _hates_ you, but you’re certainly not his friend yet. “Give me money for the supplies and I’ll do it myself.”

With your fingers buried in his hair, you see small flashes of blond roots, where they thought they could hide under the rest of his thick, combed-back hairstyle. You do not ask him about them, because you more than anyone know what it’s like to run from your past, so you quietly dye his forelock purple and he seems pleased with the job. Just as Sunday breakfast with the two kids becomes a regular deal, so does dyeing his hair, and when Kankri suggests that you tell them about his meetings a couple of days later, you tell him, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” he questions, his eyebrows drawing together.

“There’s something… _off_ about them.” You do not tell him about Eridan’s hair.

He takes your word for it easily, shrugging it off.

Another month passes, and when you’re touching up Eridan’s “brown” roots and making his streak more vivid, he says quietly, “I don’t think I want to go.”

“The fuck do you mean by that?” you ask. “Where would you even _go_ , if you had to leave for some reason?”

Eridan is quiet for a couple of minutes, and finally he just ends up deflating and replying, “You’re right.”

“I didn’t even say anything that could be taken as right or wrong!” you say.

He just hums and closes his eyes, leaning back against the tub and smirking slightly. “You’re wrong about _that_ , Por.”

He’s teasing. As you wring out a washcloth in the sink, you wonder when you stopped being just his neighbor and became his friend.

You watch Eridan lighten, turning from a bitter, scowling thing into someone remotely human. He brings you pretty piercings from the people he’s killed and you clean them thoroughly before adding them to your collection, and he watches romcoms with Karkat and talks about the latest fashions with Kanaya. Feferi is always smiles and positivity and you don’t know how she deals with Eridan on a constant basis, but it didn’t take you long to notice that he clings to her like this rocky planet orbits the bright sun, looking at her as if she’s the only star in the universe.

The day after the justice building goes down and the short list of the dead is released, you sit with Kankri as he cries, his tears nearly silent as his chest heaves with every repressed sob. “They were only in danger because of me,” he whispers, repeating Rufioh’s words from the last meeting. “I practically killed them myself.”

“They weren’t stupid, they knew the risks,” you say (even though neither of you knew about the greatest risk of them all), and their loss has already burrowed its way into your chest and sent out its venomous spines. You’d wept for them alone, because if Kankri saw you he would only find himself even more culpable, and that’s why you’re able to sit with him now with dry eyes. “They wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

His eyes are redder than they usually get when he cries, probably still irritated from the tear gas that was shot at him yesterday. He grits his teeth, forcing his tears to halt. “I am very tired,” he seethes through lips that hardly move, “of dead children.”

You agree.

Feferi comes back two months later, wearing the Peixes name like a rash, ashamed of it but still letting it show. It takes Eridan even longer to slink back, and he only gives himself up bit by bit, torn by both his injuries and his sense of duty. Having him bawl on your couch reminds you that even if he is insufferable, you love this stupid twerp, and you’d shoot yourself in the head before you’d let anything bad happen to him—or anyone you love, for that matter. Kanaya, Kankri, Karkat, Feferi, Damara, Mituna, Latula, Meulin, Aranea. You will protect them by any means necessary. These days, you worry about the Archbishop’s people finding you more than ever, because now you’re a public figure and they could come for you whenever they felt like it, and the thought of leaving your loves behind makes you sick.

The thought of them getting anywhere _near_ Kanaya makes you sicker.

Kankri and Karkat are just as sacred to you as Kanaya is, and she’s your little miracle girl. Every time you step outside, you feel the tension in the Furthest Ring building higher and higher, and just like you knew back when you first got this dingy apartment, you know the peace won’t last.

 

* * *

 

Someone that looks exactly like him is hanging from a thick rope, a bullet through his skull weeping as his body rotating slightly back and forth, back and forth. The clothes and the face and the height are all right, but your dear Kankri has never looked so broken, so empty.

And most importantly, Kankri is not dead.

It doesn’t really hit you until Eridan murmurs, “We need to get him down,” and you sink to your knees, unable to look anywhere besides at _him_. Kanaya comes to you, putting her hands on your shoulders, and you continue swaying like you won’t be able to keep yourself upright for much longer, muttering something to Kanaya.

“What?” she asks.

“That’s not him,” you say louder, and just like that, you’re dissolving like salt in water, the result of such a mixture flowing down your face as you shriek, “ _That’s not him_!”

You can’t bear to look at Karkat, who is now repeating _oh my God_ like a prayer. You’ve failed him, and you’ve failed Kankri too. “ _Kankri_!” you scream. “ _KANKRI_!”

He does not hear you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the next update in a week!
> 
> (Then who the hell knows?)


	25. ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two of the intermission! I promise that after this, we will return to our regularly scheduled programming, and this fixation on Kankri's death will be over.
> 
> ...Well, kind of.
> 
> The POV of this chapter is meant to be ambiguous. Perhaps you'll figure out who it is by the end--I left some pretty big clues!

“Why are you doing this?”

He sounded calm, unafraid. It made you feel sick to your stomach. “We’re not moving fast enough,” you said.

You were facing him, holding a silenced pistol, which is cocked and ready to go, to the middle of his forehead. There’s dishonor in killing someone by shooting them in the back, so you forced yourself to look him in the eye as you prepared to pull the trigger. His brow scrunched as he continued to be unfazed by the gun pointing at his brain. “Pardon? We just had the gala—”

“And the gala didn’t do _shit_ ,” you snarled, angry with yourself more than you were angry with him, because you _were_ going to do this. You would not be talked out of this by the furrow between his deep brown eyes. “Great, you made some bucks pull their head out of the sand, congratulations! You want this to be a very gradual movement instead of a goddamn revolution, and that’s dumb. _People are dying_ , Kankri! People are being sterilized and beaten and brainwashed, and you still want to give the fucks doing this to us a chance. If they’re not on our side at this point, they never will be.”

“I still don’t understand why you feel the need to do this. I…” His voice weakened momentarily, then he sighed and tried again. “I thought—”

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” you interrupted. “It’s _too late_ for you to tell me what you think! I’ve been listening to you for years, and what has it gotten me? A sterilized sibling because you didn’t work fast enough.”

“Oh God,” he breathed. “I had no idea s—”

“Shut up!” you snapped. “Didn’t I already tell you to shut up? What’s done is done.” Now _you_ were the one whose voice was shaking, and you swallowed a few times. “I am not you. I will not let this happen to _anyone else_. Do you understand now?”

“You are going to try to martyr me,” he realized, tone hollow, “so people will rebel stronger.”

Exhaling slowly, you said, “Yeah. Yeah, you get it now.” Pursing your lips, you tightened your grip on the gun, and he flinched. It made you want to cry. “I fancied myself in love with you at one point, you know?” You laughed a little hysterically. “And then I grew up and realized that it was just because I’d put you on some pedestal, just like everyone else in the Furthest Ring did, and now they are going to see you stone cold dead, and they will _rise_.”

His lips had started to tremble, and he pressed them together tightly. “Do I get a final request?” he asked.

It would’ve been cruel of you to deny him, but you were wary just in case he decided to try something. “Depends on what it is,” you said.

Swallowing, he said, “I would like to speak, one last time. A goodbye speech. You could record it and upload it somewhere where other people can listen. That would go well with your plan for action, right?” He barked a bitter laugh. “And…and I would like a separate tape, as well. To say goodbye to my family.”

You were slightly mystified because you didn’t think of that yourself. You’d _loved_ his idea say goodbye to his valiant supporters, as long as he said some things you wanted him to! (If he didn’t speak up to your par, you could just scrap the recording.) That could be what really sends people off the edge—their prophet’s words from beyond the grave. His last sermon. You pulled your tablet from your back pocket, your other hand still holding the gun to his head, and went to the voice recording app. “Start.”

He took a few deep breaths before beginning, “I don’t… I don’t always know what to say. Even now I believe that—no.” He broke off with a harsh sigh, then gulped in more air like he was trying to keep from drowning. “No. I know that you all…  Fuck. I’m starting over.” You shrugged to show him your indifference. He tried again. “People say all the time that… that they’d face death with the same attitude they use for life—arrogance, curiosity, desperation. But truly, when it is looking you straight in the face,” he took another deep, sucking breath, “how could you _not_ be afraid? I know I don’t _sound_ afraid, yet. Not really. But I assure you that my resolve will slip at some point during this and you may no longer see me as someone who is stoic in the face of doom. What do you want me to include in this last statement: more words of prized ‘wisdom’, more political commentary, more reassurances that you can rise up? I do not believe that any of you are fools. You’ve heard me say again and again what my beliefs are, what ideals I think we should cherish. But what do _you_ think? Do you think this is fair? Do you think this is justice? No trial, no jury, just a straight conviction. How many of you even know what a terrorist _is_? Because it is not me. All I have done is tried to teach peace in the face of brutality while we are all locked in a world that values silence and possession. Look at your programming, look at your interests, look at your professions. Don’t you see that the government believes you are _idiots_ , incapable of higher thought? Prove them wrong.

“What I heard a lot while I was at university in the Burbs was, ‘You can’t live in two worlds at once; it is either one or the other,’ and that was just so astounding to me, because while it was obvious there was a line drawn, it was the first time where someone blatantly told me that I needed to pick a side and stick to it. That’s one of the reasons I started this—no one should have to _choose,”_ his voice breaks, “between one or the other because there shouldn’t _be_ two separate spheres. There needs to be one world, one system, one people united.” The cracks he’d promised before were beginning to show, and it made you want to hold him but you couldn’t, _you couldn’t_. “I may not be the first to yearn for change, but I was the first to rally for action. That’s what we were waiting for—someone to decide we weren’t going to be passive anymore. I was the first of this generation, and I can promise you that there will be another. And another. And another, because when I am dead there are plenty who will be willing to take my place. The day this regime topples will not be today, but it will be tomorrow. I am certain of it.”

He sank to his knees like he could stand no longer, and you fell to the ground with him, still holding the gun in place. “God, I’m sorry that I cannot be there to see tomorrow with you, but I will ask the Burbs citizens this.” He’s regained control of himself, and he’s glaring at you, his lips pulling down into a deep grimace. “Is there so much hate in you that you cannot see? That you cannot make your own choices independent from this fucked up hive mind that everyone up here seems to function under? Make your own goddamned choices and _show_ them. I will be dead by the time you make up your mind but think, _think_! I know I will be just one more dead thump to you, but I am _begging_ you, question the system that threatens to destroy this city. Look for that tomorrow, and make sure it comes soon.

“And I don’t _care_ ,” he snarled, “if you get violent! _I don’t fucking care!_ I will not be _alive_ to care, because I will have been put down like a fucking _animal_. Burn it all to the ground if you have to, because we are _fucked_ and _broken_ and I am sick of being belittled and spat on.” He laughed then, shutting his eyes as hysterical tears began leaking down his face. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you! I tried to show you what is better and you _ignored_ me, so do whatever the fuck you want from here on out and see who is right in the end.”

He inhaled through his nose, and let his breath gust from his mouth, ruffling your hair with it. “That’s it for the public,” he said, most of the anger gone from his voice. You thought that you would cut away his little end rant. “It’s time for… time for me to say goodbye to them.”

You ended that recording, saved it, and started a new one. “Go.”

“The first thing…” he said, and even with just that he’s starting to erode all over again. “The first thing I have to say is do not suffer for me; I could not bear it. I will suffer on my own, and that suffering will be over soon.” His voice broke on almost every word in the last half of that sentence, and he gulped a few times to try and get rid of the tears stuck in his throat, but soon they win the war and start falling down his face again. These were not the thin, enraged tears from earlier—these fell in clumps, hanging off his chin and dripping onto his knees and the roof under him. “Oh God, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Karkat, Porrim, Kanaya, Mituna: _I’m so sorry_ for leaving you behind. I’ve failed you, as a speaker and as a friend and as a brother. I love you all. I… I may be the first one of us to be killed like this, but I doubt I will be the last if you all are not more careful with whom you trust. I love you. I love you, please don’t get yourselves killed along with me. Trust Latula. Trust Feferi. Hell, even trust Eridan, because even though he’s an Angel now, he still loves you. Tread lightly with Aranea and Horuss. Never trust a fucking Makara, but Porrim, you already knew that. Trust your best judgement, because all of you are smart. You can live like I can’t. I love you. I love you. Goodbye.”

You figured he was done then, because he began saying your name again and again, saying that you were better than the fate you were about to lay upon him, and it would’ve been so much easier if you’d been able to stick to the original plan: shooting him in the back of his head before he could see your face. He made it _so much harder_ than it had to be.

“I’m so sorry,” you said one last time, and before you could pull the trigger, he lunged at your knees, knocking you backwards. Your fist tightened around the gun and a shot went off, wasting a bullet that just flew waywardly into the sky, and you dropped your tablet. Kankri leapt for the gun, trying to pry it away from your grip, but with your free hand you punched him in the side of the head once, then in the nose. Though it didn't even begin to bleed, he shrieked, his hands automatically going to hover over his nose, and he realized his mistake too late. Kankri was never a physical fighter; you didn’t get why he tried.

(Actually you _did_ understand, because you were very familiar with the way of the hunt and how a trapped animal always fought fiercely at its last chance at life, for their families, for their loves—)

Shoving him and moving a leg around to trip him in the air, he landed flat on his back and then you were straddling him, the gun back in its original position. He screamed, “ _Help! Help!_ ” but no one came in the final seconds of his life, and you pulled the trigger.

His body started, like he’d been surprised by something, and then his head lolled to the side, a small trickle of blood starting to flow from the shot. The bullet wound on his forehead was neat and circular, looking at you like an all-seeing eye; you were sure the back of his skull was a mess from the exit wound, but you didn’t feel like turning him over to check. Blood that looked almost black in the low light was smoothly spreading onto the ground under him, forming a circular halo that radiated outward. If you left him there like that, people would take photos and spread them everywhere once his body was found, because he looked like a martyred saint.

And that’s exactly what you wanted. Taking out your tablet again, you shoot a short video. Though you wanted to release the complete piece later, you decided not to leave him as art, like Gamzee did to the Angel. Gulping, you walked across the roof to the bag you’d stashed up here earlier today and got a long, thick rope you’d stolen from the shipyard. The youngest Pyrope girl had taught you how to tie a noose, and though the knot you made was by no means perfect, when you gave it an experimental tug it held well. You looped one end around Kankri’s neck and tightened it so it fit snugly under his chin, like you were tucking him into bed, and tied the other end to a vent sticking out of the ground. Dragging Kankri’s body to the edge of the roof, you peered over the edge—there was no one on the street below right now, so you heaved him over the lip and let him drop.

The vent groaned as it took his weight, but your knot held steady. Walking back over to your bag, you pulled on your cardigan and buttoned it, hiding the flecks of blood that had gotten on your shirt. You went to the side of the roof with the dumpster, zipped your bag, and dropped it down. It made a crashing sound, like it broke some bottles and you stood there for a minute, closing your eyes and taking a few deep breaths.

You did it. _You did it._

It didn’t take long for someone to scream.


	26. ACT 3: XXIII- Archive 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In place of the Days countdown, we have something new: archives. There will now be a gap between the author's note and the beginning of the text--be sure to highlight it!
> 
> Here we are, the beginning of Act 3, the final part. As I've stated before, there will be eight chapters total, and there will be no more time jumps or skips; my intent is to make the timeframe easy to follow, but as a rule of thumb, you can assume that each chapter is one more day after Day 0. This chapter is the day after, Chapter 24 will be the day after that, etc. Now that we've returned to our usual programming, the alternating chapters narration is back in effect, starting with Eridan.
> 
> I do not have the next chapter prepared and since this time next month is finals season, the update will probably be late! (Unless I manage to finish it in the next week or two, that is, but don't hold your breath.) If we're lucky, Homestuck will be over at that time, and we may realize that one day we can be truly free. If its completion is pushed yet again, then perhaps there's hope for me finishing this before the end!

Hello.

This is my will, of sorts. I may be the most powerful man in all of Canaveral, but even I know I will not last forever—many years from the day I am typing this, when I am old and wrinkled and can hardly lift my head up, someone will finally outsmart me and take my place as head of the Felt. (Though I don’t truly consider that man me: I will need a disease like Alzheimer’s or dementia to dull my wit. I will not die with a clear head.)

When I was an Angel, I was an archivist. I knew more history than anyone on that ridiculous plateau, as a result of pulling from old files and accounts before wiping them completely, so I was the only one chosen to bear that knowledge. I learned many, many things over the years, and I’ve decided to begin writing them down, so the information will not be lost upon my death. However, I don’t want just _anyone_ to know this—though I cannot hand-pick my successor, you must have some worth to you, so I hope you’ll oblige a dead man’s wish when I tell you not to share this. It is only for the eyes of the leader of the Felt, and that means you can leave it here to pass along to the poor chap who kills you.

You may delete this paragraph once you have carried out my will, since it only has to do with what is to be done immediately following my death. In one of my electronic accounts, there is a sum of $3,000,000 set aside. It is to go to my head of household, Hadina Megido, as an incentive to retire. The leader of my whores, Damara Megido, is to take her mother’s position. Tell her that she has pleased me, and will never pleasure anyone else ever again.

Now, I feel these archives will be long—after all, I have much to say, and there is no limit to what I know. If you are worthy of my old position, you will read through all of the articles, as they will give you personal power you never knew you had the capacity to hold. Knowledge may be binding, but it is also very freeing. I am sure knowing things that no one else does will give you the same satisfaction that it gave me.

 

* * *

 

Feferi looks bewildered when she opens the door. She blinks hard, gaze going from your crutches to your duffel bag to your face, a question in her eyes. One corner of your mouth turns up, and you say, “I don’t like the idea of you staying down here alone, after… what happened yesterday. I can commute back up to the Burbs, it’s not far. So. Um. Can I..?”

Her smile is sad. She closes the gap between you and loops her arms around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder, and you return the hug, squishing your bag between you. You try to position your crutches so they don’t dig into her back. “They’re leaving,” she says, voice muffled. “They don’t think it’s safe here anymore, so they’re going to start couch hopping.”

“Do you think you’d be safer in the Burbs?” you ask. “I have some money saved up—enough for a deposit on an apartment plus a few months’ rent, and I could get Cro to co-sign—”

“No,” she says, pulling back and holding out her hand, eyeing the duffel bag. “I like it down here.”

You weren’t really expecting her to say yes, so you just shrug. Shifting past her, you say, “I can carry my own bag, _God_ , Fef.”

She huffs indignantly, about to snap at you, then she sees your smirk and realizes you were being facetious. Rolling her eyes, she follows you inside, shutting and locking the door behind her. You go back into the bedroom, and Fef heads over to the closet, pushing the curtain aside and taking some stuff out. “Your two dresser drawers are still empty, but I need to clear some space here.”

“You only need to make enough room for my uniforms,” you say, unzipping your bag. You only brought two, a practical and a formal Angel outfit. “Everything else will fit in the dresser.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring an entire walk-in closet’s worth of stuff,” she teases, taking her dress from the demonstration gala off the hook and stuffing it under the bed, not caring that it’s probably worth more than the bed itself, mattress and frame and everything.

“I’ll still be going back to Dad’s place a few days a week for physio,” you explain, removing your neatly-folded clothes from your duffel and moving them into the dresser, “so I didn’t bring everything.”

“Oh,” she says, pausing like she’s just now realizing one of the problems of you coming back. Holding a long, flowy skirt in her hands, she stares at your crutches as she asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be doing physical therapy every day? Won’t that be an issue?”

“Nah,” you shake your head, trying to ignore the weird feeling you get whenever you realize she’s pitying you. “I know enough of the exercises now that I can just do them down here, and only go back every other day.”

She _hmm_ s and continues making room. You fall into a steady rhythm, and soon the dresser is stuffed and your other things are hung neatly in the closet. “Well, what about that foot drop surgery you were telling me about a few days ago on Pesterchum?” she questions, gesturing for you to follow her as she goes into the kitchen.

You grab a banana before sitting down at the rickety card table. It’s old and browning, but you know it’s from the Burbs, from when Fef could still go up there to get food. Now that you’re down here, you’ll start bringing home groceries; you don’t have an elevator ban to worry about. “There’s just… a lot of pros and cons,” you say, peeling it.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Fef says, “you’re supposed to peel it from the nub on the bottom.”

Snorting, you counter, “That makes no fuckin’ sense; there’s this thing,” you don’t know what else to call the extension on the top of the banana, so you just flick it, “that functions like a pull tab.”

“Wrong, wrong, wroooong,” she singsongs. “Anyway, pros and cons?”

“Yeah. I’d be in a cast for about a month after the surgery unless I can get recuperacoon therapy again, and then depending on whether or not I’m using my full-leg braces, I’d either have to get my right one adjusted so it bears more of my weight again or I’d have to use a walking boot. None of that is ideal.” You take a bite of the banana, and it has a chemical taste that makes your face scrunch up. However, it feels good to get some food in your stomach. “But if I did get the surgery, I could probably get my ankle’s full range of motion back, as long as I don’t keep getting stress fractures. That’d be nice, even if I still won’t be able to completely pull my toes up. It’s something.”

“Then do it,” she urges, planting her elbows on the table and putting her head in her hands.

Sighing, you take another bite. “Dad would be pissed that I would have to take a month or two off. He knows I can ditch the crutches and ignore the pain if I absolutely needed to; you can’t really run in a cast, though.” To yourself, you admit that you can barely run _without_ a cast now, but you’ve learned how to throw your weight and position your damaged limb so you can move reasonably fast.

“Oh, he can deal!” she snaps. She brings the tone of her voice lower in an attempt to imitate him. “My name is Seymour and I only care about my son as long as he’s useful to me and doesn’t show any signs of the crippling injuries he has! Bluh, bluh, bluh!”

You look down at the table, biting your lip. The braces encasing your legs abruptly feel colder. She’s right—he only ever wanted you back as long as you could work to the same standard as you used to, and the fact that you can’t stings. He thinks that recovery should be like it is in the movies, where you get shot in the arm and you’re using it in the next scene, or you break a leg and you never even see the character in a cast, but real life isn’t like that. It’s riddled with complications and setbacks and pain, which are all things your father doesn’t have the patience for.

“Eridan?” Fef says softly. When you glance at her, her expression is guilty. “I’m sorry if that was mean. I’m. I’m sure he actually _does_ care about you, he just—”

“No, you’re right,” you murmur. “I’m turning out to be such a fuckup. He doesn’t want to associate with someone like me, so it’s only a matter of time before I’m dropped, just like Cronus.”

“Hush,” she says, “you’re not a fuckup.” You give her a stern look from beneath your eyelashes. “Okay, maybe you _are_ a fuckup in some ways, but you’re getting better. I’d rather you be a fuckup in your father’s eyes than be a fuckup who’s ruining his body.”

You don’t really have anything to say about that, so you just finish your fruit in silence as Fef draws patterns into the tabletop with the tip of her finger. You’re not really hungry anymore and it’s surprisingly hard to finish just this one little thing. Once you’re done, she says, “We should go check on them.”

She means Porrim and Karkat and Kanaya, you’re certain. Sighing, you nod; you know this isn’t going to be a particularly enjoyable visit, but… God, you have to.

Kankri Vantas is dead.

Somehow, the news hasn’t made it out yet. Feferi messaged Sollux last night to tell him, and he’s probably passed on the word to his brother and Aradia, but you think they know to stay quiet about it for now. God knows what’ll happen when the whole world knows that he’s dead.

(You wonder, in particular, what Rufioh will do.)

Last night, you’d tried to control everything. Putting up a mental block that distanced yourself from the situation, you left Fef to help Porrim, Karkat, and Kanaya while you went around to each person in the gathered crowd and told them not to let word spread and to go the fuck home. Because you were still in your practical Angel uniform—what can you say, the thing is comfortable—they listened to you. Everything was quieter once the police arrived a few minutes later, or at least, there were fewer people. Porrim was still on the ground, crying into Kanaya’s blouse. Karkat had sat down hard, head between his knees like he was trying not to throw up, and Feferi crouched between him and the body, blocking him from the view.

The police got Kank down, stowed him away, and assured you the ashes would be returned to you after an autopsy. _More_ , you commanded _, you need to do more_ , you wanted a formal investigation and official documents proving if it was government-sanctioned or not, and then someone else showed up because of a call you’d made before you started talking to bystanders.

“Mr. Ampora,” the cop in charge said, looking away from you and towards a man who was not your father, but your brother. “This isn’t your jurisdiction.”

Shrugging nonchalantly with his hands shoved in his pockets, Cronus responded, “Juno’s not up for anything tonight, so she called in a favor. Go start the paperwork and I’ll talk to the witnesses.” With an air of superiority, he turned to the huddled group on the pavement, but you caught his shoulder and spun him around.

“Please,” you implored, looking at him hard. When he just blinked lazily at you, you let yourself crack a bit. You couldn’t keep it up much longer. Kankri was your friend, too. “ _Please_.”

Suddenly much more serious, he nodded once.

Cronus was soft with them, almost gentle. He wasn’t the aimless, shallow man who cared little for anything or anyone—he was the brother who’d let you hold his hand when there were too many people at your parents’ parties and you didn’t want to get lost in the crowd. The police left with the body because Cronus assured them he had the situation under control, and he got statements, doing the bare minimum required because any more right now would be cruel. Most people would push them more, having little sympathy and wanting to get everything over with quickly, but because you asked, Cronus did it right. The investigation wasn’t closed like it normally would be; they’d continue looking into it. After Fef had ushered everyone back to the apartment and left you downstairs with your brother, he firmly said, “You’re coming home with me.”

His gaze was somewhat vulnerable; he’d spoken with Karkat last. You said, “I need to stay with them.”

“Peixes has it under control.” His hard tone betrayed his stubbornness. “I did this for you, now you’re going to do this for me.”

After messaging Fef to say you were sorry, you slept on Cronus’ couch, then returned to the penthouse to grab your things, and here you are now.

Fef gets up and holds out her hand to you. Squeezing it once, you let her pull you to your feet, then reluctantly drop her hand to use your crutches.

The Vantas-Maryam apartment is empty. No one answers the door and you can hear no noise. “When I last talked to them, they made it sound like they were out of here tomorrow, not today. I’ll message Kanaya,” Fef says, taking out her tablet. When you start leaning against the wall to make yourself more comfortable, she takes you back downstairs so you can sit on the couch while you wait for Kanaya to respond.

Your tablet beeps first, and for a second you think Kan messaged you instead, but it’s not her, and it’s not your personal account.

\--amporaSeymour [AS] began pestering amporaEridan [AE]--

AS: Where were you last night?

AE: cronus had me ovver

AS: And where are you NOW?

AE: im not coming in today

AS: Eridan, you cannot show up whenever you please. I need to speak to you about an urgent matter.

AE: is it that kankri vvantas got murdered

AS: Yes, and you and Cronus were there. I saw the footage.

Of course there are cameras by the apartment complex. Of course. Even if there weren’t before, Gamzee Makara chose this as a place to leave behind his “art”, so it would definitely be watched now, even if a rising group of insurgents _didn’t_ live here. Lord English is always watching, and so is your father.

AE: it wwasnt angel sanctioned?

AS: Of course it wasn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, do you not remember our conversation yesterday? You are being ludicrous and out-of-line. Come speak to me. That is an order.

AE: permission to offer a different solution

AS: …

AS: Permission granted.

AS: But do not waste my time.

AE: im close to them

AE: you knoww that

AE: if anything happens behind closed doors that i knoww wwould be good information for us ill send it to you

AE: keeping you constantly updated on the situation and makin sure evverything remains under control

AS: And if control cannot be maintained?

AE: i wwill knoww anything long before you wwould on your owwn

AE: so ill pass it along and come to headquarters wwhen i can

AS: Keep in mind that I can still call on you for the one thing you can still do.

AE: wwhich is

AS: Don’t be facetious.

AE: yes sir

AS: Eridan.

AS: Do not disappoint me.

\--amporaSeymour [AS] ceased pestering amporaEridan [AE]--

You let out a deep breath and close the app before Fef can look at your conversation. Though you have no plans to turn anyone over to your father, this at least got him off your back for now. As you slide your tablet into your back pocket, Fef finally gets a response from Kanaya, saying they’re safe but they don’t want to reveal where because the chat could be monitored. You think that’s super paranoid, since Kanaya herself isn’t exactly high-profile, but you guess you can understand their desire to be discreet. They might come back to the apartment and they might not, but you two will be contacted if need be. You expected no less, but Fef is disappointed.

“I just…” she sighs harshly, putting her head in her hands. You slowly start rubbing her back, trying to help somehow. “I can’t believe. That this happened.”

It still doesn’t seem real to you either, although you believe that’ll change once word gets out. Other people’s reactions can make something very, very real all at once.

There isn’t much to do, since you just basically told your dad to fuck off and Fef cancelled the dive she had planned today. From all of the things you except for the moment, what you _didn’t_ predict was that Fef was going to touch her nose, her thumb brushing over the slight bruise that’s left over from a few days ago, and start to cry.

Fef isn’t a crier. She didn’t cry last night as everyone else fell apart. She didn’t cry as her mother disinherited her. You can count all of the times you’ve seen her cry on one hand, which is fuckin’ embarrassing because you’ve lost it a whole lot more in front of her. You can blame Serenity for most of those, and you can also blame yourself for the times she’s cried in front of you: screaming at her didn’t do her any good, both in the apartment weeks ago and when you were children.

But now she puts her hand over her mouth and tries to fight it, but you say, “No, love, shh,” and reach out, pulling at her until she get up and settles into your lap.

“I’m,” she hiccups as you wind your arms around her waist, “I’m hurting you.”

“No you’re not,” you say quietly, because surprisingly, your legs feel okay. She’s keeping herself away from your knees and is sitting pretty high up on your thighs. You both know the bones had been broken there, but she’s also sitting on your braces, plus you’ve probably been healing better since using crutches again. It’s still a little achy where she’s sitting, sure, but really, it’s fine. Tucking your chin over her shoulder and pretending that seeing her cry hasn’t put a lump in your own throat, you say, “I’ve got you, come on, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she squeaks, her shoulders shaking.

“Okay, fine,” you say, allowing yourself a sniffle. “It’s royally fucked. Is that any better?” She makes a small noise that might be a laugh and jabs you in the stomach. “Wow, rude.”

You let her stay on your lap for a little while, and eventually it does start to hurt, so once she’s gotten ahold of herself, you tell her to clean up so you can go get some food. You know that after a cry, you’re usually ready to eat something, and since Fef can be a bottomless pit, you hope she can get some food in her. Once she’s gone, you lean your forehead on the table and fold your hands behind your head, trying not to throw up, not really because of any physical pain but from the strange ache of loss.

Once Fef is ready, you head out. She berates you for not grabbing your crutches and tries to force you to use them, but you tell her you’ve adjusted your braces and you add an edge to your tone so she won’t argue. She’s not in the mood for a fight, just like you’d thought, so she drops it. Locking the door behind you, she turns, grabbing your hand.

When you step onto the stairs, you see that the billboard outside the apartment complex has been painted. The work is Gamzee’s—his signature is still in the corner. The image makes your stomach curl with rage, but you have to admit, this is a hell of a lot tamer than his usual stuff. It’s white calligraphy on a black background, reading, “Revelation 14:13, They will rest from their labor, for their deeds will follow them.”

“He knows,” Fef says, sounding hollow.

You spit, “I swear to his fucking God, if _he killed Kank_ —”

Shaking her head slowly, she says, “I still think you’re putting too much power in his hands. Gamzee likes weird, dramatic gestures. It’s why he went looking for you, even if he didn’t kill Abraxas. He’s… I think he’s just expressing his condolences.”

“He’s still a piece of shit,” you mutter, leaning on the railing heavily as you tug Fef down the stairs. “I’m gonna keep an eye on him.”

There aren’t a lot of food places to choose from in the Furthest Ring and you offer to take her up to the Burbs, but Fef just leads you to a shitty fast food place that’s going to give you indigestion, but you pick at some fries as she scarfs down a burger. You only eat a few, so you give her the rest. As she picks at your scraps, you watch out the window, seeing random passersby and small crowds walking along the street.

…And then you spot some people that _aren’t_ so random.

You see Meulin first. She’s on the opposite side of the street from the storefront so you don’t get a close-up, but you can tell from here that she’s wrecked: her hair is frizzy and untamed, her shoulders are hunched, she keeps wringing her hands as she stares straight down at the sidewalk. _Poor girl_ , you think, a fresh wave of grief hitting you, but then you see who she’s with.

It appears she wasn’t done with Kurloz forever, after all.

He follows a beat behind her, strides long and nonchalant. While Meulin’s all short, hurried steps and jittery disposition, Kurloz is as calm as ever, staring straight ahead with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. You only have a few seconds to observe before the wall blocks them from your line of sight.

The situation sits wrong with you. From the conversation you’d had with Meulin at Cascade, it seemed like she wanted nothing more than to be done with Kurloz Makara once and for all. Hell, you’d practically given her the idea to go after Kankri again, which would probably make some of her suffering your fault. You could have sent her running right back into Kurloz’s arms.

(You take a second to put yourself in her shoes: if Fef was brutally killed, would you run back to Vris? Even if you did, she’d probably just laugh at you.)

Though Makara definitely wouldn’t be in your top ten choices for people to comfort you, Meulin knows him better than you do. Maybe she _does_ need him, especially now. You feel a jab of indignant jealousy on Kankri’s behalf. You’d criticize her for moving on too quickly after his death, but she’d been with Kurloz for months before this fiasco, so she could’ve just wanted someone familiar. Even with that kind of rationalization, you still feel weird about it.

Eating is a good diversion for a while, but when you get home at around sunset and your neighbors haven’t returned yet, you don’t really know what to do. Fef helps decide for you—she makes you do some PT, watching and asking questions and trying to help. She’s not as good as the woman in the hologenerator, but she’s so earnest and wants a distraction; you can’t tell her no, even if she can’t tell the difference between what’s too gentle or too rough.

Time drags as you wait for any additional word from Kanaya. You message Kar in the meantime, asking how he is (shitty, you assume) and if he can give you any update on their location, but he’s idle and you don’t get a response. You make it to midnight without a peep, and you lie awake for hours before you finally doze off with Fef’s arm slung over your back.

 

* * *

 

You awake suddenly in the morning. You don’t remember what you were dreaming about, but there’s a hard knot in your chest that makes you feel stressed. The sun is up, the putrid yellow light leaking through the curtains adorning your small window and making you squint, but despite the time of day, you’re still tired. It doesn’t hurt too badly to shuffle to the bathroom without your braces since you haven’t gotten up in hours; once you’ve pissed, you come back to bed to find that Fef is awake but still curled up under the covers. She looks over at you, eyes glazed with sleepiness, and you swallow, climbing back into bed and turning on your side to face her. “Hey,” you say quietly.

“Hey,” she whispers back. Besides a few slow blinks, she hasn’t looked away from you.

You hold out your hand to her, and she takes it more hesitantly than usual, grasping your fingers lightly. That makes you realize you offered her your bad hand without thinking so you pull it back, hoping that she doesn’t see the embarrassed blush on your face. “I’m sorry, shit, um…”

“Eridan, it’s okay,” she says softly. “Can I see it?”

Cautiously, you reach back towards her, and she takes your hand, bringing it closer to her face so she can see. She runs her thumb across your knuckles, pausing when she gets to your artificial ones. You don’t have your prosthetic fingers in, since why the hell would you sleep in those, so it’s just the permanent implant and the small plastic corks that keep anything from getting into the attachment sites. She asks, “How does it work?”

She sounds genuinely interested, not condescending or mocking. “Reach down further on my hand, more towards my wrist,” you direct, and you feel her fingers glide down the back of your hand. It gives you goosebumps. “Feel the two long bones, at the end? Yeah, those. When my fingers got blown off, the part of the bones that were closer to my wrist just became jagged nubs, so when they reconstructed my hand, the fixed part of the prosthetic was mounted onto the bone stumps and they extend like the real bones did up to my knuckles. Here, move your thumb up, can you feel where it goes from bone to synthetic? You can press harder if you need to; it doesn’t hurt.”

Her thumb ghosts across your hand and finds the right area. “Yeah, there. That’s where all the motor neurons connect. Then if you move up to my knuckles, they’re not actually two separate things anymore. There’s a little dip between the fingers to make it look like they’re two different pieces, but feel it.”

She does, pressing down between the two indents. “Doesn’t that make it harder to move your hand?” she questions. “Why would they do it like that?”

“They needed more room to fit in all the programming and shit, I don’t know exactly what. It means that if I want to use the knuckle joint, I have to use both of my fingers at the same time and I can’t really stretch them out, but it’s not bad. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“It’s…” _Gross. Creepy. Bizarre. Unsightly._ “Pretty neat! They were able to build all of this back after it got blown off? It looks like it’s just your hand, there isn’t even a scar where it changes from your normal hand to where the skin grafts started.”

“Yeah?” you ask. “You… don’t think it’s weird?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, as she’s busy plucking one of the plastic corks out of the finger mount so she can get a better look at the port. You think she’s smart enough not to put her finger in it so you don’t warn her, and all she does it drag her thumb over it, brushing the sensitive skin that the plug usually covers. You jerk your hand back at the feeling and she gasps involuntarily, instantly apologizing, “Did that hurt? I’m sorry—”

“No,” you deny, “no it didn’t hurt. It tickled.”

“Oh,” she says, and you give her your hand back so she can stick the cork back in. The angle is a bit off and it pinches your skin briefly, but you don’t flinch so she doesn’t know. So much for it not hurting. “And of course I think it’s weird. It’s just _cool_ weird!”

Now you’re the one who just says, “Oh.”

Taking your wrist, she guides your hand to her cheek and you cup it, running your thumb across her cheekbone. You feel her smile, and you can’t help but think of when you grabbed her face with this hand during your fight a few weeks ago; you were trying to get her to admit that she found it appalling because then you’d have a reason to be angry at her. It didn’t work.

“You don’t need to be so insecure,” she says now, nuzzling into your palm.

“I’m not.” It’s a complete lie, and both of you know it.

You feel her sigh leak over the thin skin of your wrist. “I’m not just talking about your hand,” she says, pausing to drop a kiss on the corner of it she can reach without having to turn her head much. “Eridan, you don’t need to feel ashamed about getting hurt. It was out of your control.”

“I…” It’s hard to find an answer. “I can’t really help what I feel.”

Fef scoots closer to you, and you move towards her to make the job easier; she holds your arm up and turns around, sliding back to fit the contours of your body before holding you hand and bringing it to her chest. You can barely feel her heartbeat under your fingers. Adjusting your position so you’re more comfortable includes threading your legs with hers, and you carefully push your bad foot out so it doesn’t brush against her leg.

“Does this hurt at all?” she asks.

You press your face into her hair. You’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in your entire life. “No, I’m fine. Better than fine, actually.”

“I missed you,” she whispers, dragging her heel across your shinbone. It makes you shiver.

“I missed you, too.”

You think Fef has gotten enough sleep for the day, but she stays in bed with you as you doze. You don’t stay spooning like this—Fef has always been fidgety, so you end up jerked out of near-sleep a few times as she rolls over or adjusts your arm. Once, when you actually managed to fall asleep, you wake to her turning onto her back as your arm falls onto the mattress. You make a groggy noise deep in your throat and she murmurs, “Sorry.” You take that as an invitation to move back in, and once it seems like she’s comfortable again, you lay your head on her shoulder and curl up to her side. She lightly drags a finger up and down the arm you’ve laid on her stomach and you feel so safe, so loved.

(She has to be in love with you, too. She has to be. She’d never hold you like this, otherwise. She wouldn’t stay in bed with you all day. She would’ve never let you move back in. _She has to be_.)

You doze back off and this time when you wake, she’s gone, but the space next to you is still warm. You don’t bother putting on your clothes or leg braces before getting up and taking small, shuffling steps to the bathroom. You hear noise in the kitchen, and you do the bare bones of your morning routine still half-asleep even though it’s the afternoon.

The only mouthwash in the bathroom is the medicated stuff Fef got after getting her tooth replaced, but it’s still minty so it makes your breath fresh. The memory of Fef holding your hand and lightly touching your damage makes a shiver shoot up your spine when you stick in your prosthetic fingers, locking them in and flexing to make sure they’re aligned correctly. You head out into the kitchen and find Fef sitting at the table eating a granola bar. She gives you a slight smile that you can’t help but return, and you sit in silence for a few minutes as she finishes her snack. Once she’s done, you fold your hands on the table and before you can convince yourself this is a terrible idea, you ask, “Can we talk about something?”

There’s a spark in her expression, but you can’t identify it before it’s gone. “What kind of something?”

“I… um.” You gulp, swallowing a nervous laugh. “I really don’t know how to say this.”

She bites her lip, understanding dawning in her gaze and looking down at the table. “I’m not ready to talk.”

You put your head in your hands, brushing your hair back as anxiety continues building. “You don’t even know what I’m trying to say!”

“I think I do,” she says, sounding ill. “Eridan, I… I know.”

Dread curdles in your stomach (she didn’t sound happy, she sounded _ill_ ), and you can’t look her in the eye. “Oh,” you say dumbly. “Ho-how long. Have you known?”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she says, voice harder.

You press your lips together tightly, willing back tears. “Fef, _please_.”

“I don’t know if I love you like that, okay?” she snaps, folding her arms over her chest defensively. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can love you like you love me, and I don’t really want to waste time thinking about it right now because I need to know who murdered one of my friends before the entire world explodes! Things are going to get _worse_ soon, I know it.” Her tone is becoming desperate, and you so badly want to reach your hand out to her to see if she’ll take it, but you manage to hold yourself back. Now that she can no longer fool herself into thinking that sort of gesture is platonic, she’ll probably never want to hold your hand again. God, you’re such a moron. “I… I shouldn’t waste time on figuring out how I love you.”

You try to hide how terrible you feel, but something must show on your face because she softens, reaching out across the table like you’d wanted to. When you don’t take her hand, she snatches your fingers up, squeezing firmly. “I do love you though, okay?” she says softly. “I don’t know if I’m _in_ love with you, but you’re my best friend and I love you. I care about you. Isn’t that enough for now?”

Taking a shuddering breath through your nose, you want to say that it’s not. But you can’t say that, so you just nod.

She runs her thumb across your knuckles before letting go and standing. “Here, I’ll make you coffee. A spoonful of sugar and lots of cream, right?”

You don’t ask if the cream is the fake shit they sell down here. You nod again, because you don’t trust your voice not to crack. Listening as Fef gets out the coffee maker and rummages in the pantry for old grinds, you muster up the courage to ask, “But you like that, right? What… what we were doing earlier.”

“Cuddling,” she supplies, like she could tell you were too embarrassed to say it, but there’s no trace of awkwardness in her tone. The next thing you know, she’s kissing the crown of your head and patting your shoulder. “Don’t be stupid, of course I do. Now go put on your braces.”

“Fef, I’m just in the apartment,” you whine.

“Your legs aren’t any less damaged in the apartment versus outside the apartment,” she says, taking advantage of the fact you’re not in a fighting mood, just like you did to her yesterday. “Come on, the coffee will be done by the time you get back.”

You do as you’re told, and the day goes on like it’s stuck on repeat: it is a morose sort of hangout as the two of you revel in each other’s presence, because this is the only way you can satiate your desire to be alone while also catering to your desperation to be _with_ someone, and you half-heartedly play a video game on your tablets before tiring of that and moving onto TV.

The news is all shit. The sitcom on channel 10 is awful. There’s a movie that you haven’t seen a few flips in, and the music is cheery so you put it on. Though it just makes you feel even more foul to see someone else happy when you’re not, maybe it’ll make Fef feel better.

As the grinning teen accepts the pretty rose from a suitor, your TV goes to static. You get up, planning to bang on it, but then the dissonant noise stops. The static disappears, turning the screen black, and you wonder if your television just fucking _died_ on you, just like important things have been doing lately, but that’s all forgotten once you hear the voice coming out of the speakers.

Kankri says, “People say all the time that they’d face death with the same attitude they use for life…”

You and Fef just listen as he rambles. It’s the words of a man doomed, of a symbol created. About halfway through, an image fades in of Kankri just moments after his death, eyes still open and blood slowly pooling out under his head. A bit of breeze ruffles his hair. You think you might be sick. “I can promise you that there will be another. And another. And another, because when I am dead there are plenty who will be willing to take my place.”

Glancing back at Fef, you see that her eyes are blown wide, her hands covering her mouth. She looks at you, eyes shining, then turns back to the TV. “Look for that tomorrow, and make sure it comes soon,” he says, and then it cuts off, but you can’t shake the empty feeling that he wasn’t done. He never got the chance to be done.

The movie comes back on as the girl twines her arms around her lover’s neck, and you and Fef just stare at each other, horrified. What breaks the quiet is the distant sound of something shattering upstairs, and then you and Fef are on your feet, nearly running outside and banging on their door.

It doesn’t occur to you until the handle is turning that they _left_.

But it is Porrim on the other side. You can see bags packed right behind her, ready to go, and before Fef can ask if she saw, Porrim spits out, “Who—I don’t… I… _Fuck_ , who had fucking _gall_ —?”

You step up to her, putting an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back inside. Fef follows. Entering the living room shows that someone—probably Karkat, seeing as he’s currently sitting in front of TV and staring—put the leg of a barstool through the glass television screen. His hands are fisted in his hair, and Kanaya is standing behind him, a hand on his back. You sit Por down on the couch and nod at Fef; she plops down next to the older woman, looping an arm around her waist and putting a hand on her knee. She speaks to her in a low tone.

Heading to the front of the room, you extract the barstool from the TV and return it to its proper place before going and sitting next to Kar. His face is bright red and he’s seething. “We got a phone call, after,” he says, voice in pieces. “There was more. That he had to say to us.” Then he’s snarling, kicking at the TV, and you nudge Kanaya away as you pull Kar back by the armpits. He grasps at your wrists, nails digging in, but you don’t care. “How did they think they could get away with this?” he demands, not bothering to wipe away his tears anymore, his snarl turning his lips down and making him appear vicious.

“That’s the point, Kar,” you say softly, like your tone will make your words easier to hear. The message was broadcast to the whole goddamn city-state, you’re sure, because at this point, _everyone_ knew who Kankri Vantas was. _Everyone_ would want to see this, and if one person reacts, someone else will too, and then a chain starts. Though you can’t hear much besides the blood roaring in your ears, you’re almost certain that somewhere, it _has_ already started. “Whoever did this doesn’t _want_ to get away with it.”


	27. XXIV- Archive 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took a while to get this up, but you shouldn't be surprised; I _did_ say it was finals time, and I'm fucking relieved they're over. 
> 
> You might have noticed that there is no longer a question mark at the end of the chapters list, and that's because I've been debating an epilogue for a while (I actually already wrote one waaaay back in Act 1 but I can't use it anymore) and I have ultimately decided to do one! So, as I've said for a while, there will be eight chapters in Act 3 (that means six more not including this one), plus an epilogue. Unlike last summer, I will not be completely free from the tethers of this plane, as I'll be taking a chemistry course and continuing my internship over the summer. The fact that most of my friends won't be in town will hopefully mean that I'll have more time to write (and work out!!! maybe!!!! lmao!!!!!!!) and I would _really_ like to finish this up this summer, but we'll see how hard chemistry beats my ass this semester.
> 
> Anyway, here's the reminder that I'm doing chapter and plot summaries [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/138961287004/the-story-so-far). You might need it this time, seeing as it's been almost a month and a half since my last update, which means Homestuck fucking _ended_ in the meantime. I have lots of Opinions about that ending, but I'll digress before I even start. Even though Homestuck has ended, I will absolutely see this through until the bitter end.

I do not aspire to be a normal storyteller, so I will not begin at the start of my own tale, nor will I start with the beginning of Canaveral. No, I think that this beginning calls guidelines.

First of all, I will not lie to you. I am a master of partial truths and evasion, but I can be matter-of-fact when the mood strikes me. If you need to know something, you will. Some things will sound insane. Others will go against everything you have been taught. Know that I am impartial and have no reason to lead you astray, so you can take my world as absolute law.

Also, you do not necessarily need to read these in order, but it will give you the biggest glimpse into my thought process—not all of the events I describe are in order by date, but I believe it will form more of a narrative and expose you to more of who I was. However, if you do choose to skip around, do try to keep track of the ones you have read, as it would be unlucky to miss any kind of information.

Lastly, understand that you are not entitled to any of this. I already asked you very politely not to share this knowledge, and though I cannot monitor your spoken word, there are precautions I put in place to discourage you from giving my archives to anyone else. They are encrypted so that if you try to copy or send them in any way, they will be automatically deleted. There is not another copy anywhere else in the world, so it would be unfortunate if you lost such a beautiful selection of knowledge. Furthermore, I will also know if you discuss the contents of my archives using a computer on the Felt network, as I have set up a variety of trigger words that will cause deletion, just as the previous situation. You cannot accidentally set off this system, because I chose words and phrases that you would never use otherwise. For example, one is “Dolorosa massacre”. “Insurgency” is up there, as well. Another is “meteor”.

You should understand my point by now. Tread cautiously.

 

* * *

 

You don’t really expect to get any sleep tonight. As you and Eridan try to do some pathetic attempt at damage control, you get a message from Sollux, asking if you could go check on the very people you’re with right now. Once you tell him the other half of what just happened, you get sent bunches of expletives, and then he goes offline.

Blinking hard, you go to close Pesterchum on your tablet, but he pops back online right before you can. Well, that was quick. He returns to your conversation like nothing happened, saying that Porrim, Kanaya, and Karkat made plans to stay at the Captors’ place tonight; you ask Porrim if she still wants to, and she nods slowly, in a daze. All of their remaining bags are still by the front door, and there isn’t anything else they want to collect from the apartment. As the five of you lug everything down—well, Eridan doesn’t really “lug”, since you only let him carry one light backpack—Eridan stops on your floor to go inside and grab something.

He comes back with a rifle hanging from his fingers.

“That’s excessive,” Porrim says flatly.

“Can’t be too careful,” he says. Your stomach twists when he stumbles a bit coming out of the doorway, and the retort _go get your crutches_ is on the tip of your tongue, but his brow is set and his jaw is clenched. If he’s so determined to go without them, then nothing will make him change his mind.

(Kankri changed his mind, but he’s dead, he’s _dead_ —)

Eridan at least lets you hold his waist as you go downstairs. Once you’re on the sidewalk, he retracts his arm from around your shoulders like you shocked him, and you can’t help but remember what he admitted to you earlier. You weren’t lying to him when you said you needed time to figure out how you felt, nor were you bluffing when you claimed you already knew he had feelings for you. You just wanted to remain deep in denial about them, because you’re terrified that your relationship with him is going to change either way. It’s hard to find a sweet spot with him, since his moodiness can be so unpredictable sometimes, but you told the truth; you like having him close.

Because of the way you wish you had a physical reminder of his support right now—he could’ve kept his arm around your shoulders so easily and a day or two ago he _would have_ —you wonder if you really _do_ know whether or not you love him like that.

“It’s too quiet,” Eridan says, his own voice barely above a whisper.

“It _is_ rather late,” Kanaya says. The taller girl has her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to stay warm, but the temperature is hardly nippy.

Shaking his head slightly, Eridan’s grip tightens on his gun. The sun had set a few hours ago, meaning people had probably just gotten home from work, but you have to admit there are much fewer people milling about than usual.

The Captors don’t live far—just a mile and a half southeast—and you get there without trouble. Mituna surprises you by inviting you and Eridan in as well, and you can tell Eridan just wants to go but you think maybe he should sit down a few minutes before walking back. You can tell his legs hurt more by how he’s gotten progressively twitchier, and his steps have gotten shorter and shorter. Reaching behind you, you grab his sleeve and tug him inside with everyone else.

Their living room is slightly bigger than those in your apartment complex, but not by much. This place is different from the Captor Compound in that way (the tiny little studio would be standing room only for this many of you) but there are still bits of tech strewn everywhere. You and Eridan sit on the couch as the brothers try to get their guests settled, and you lean forward to look at the wires and capacitors and bits of soldering equipment littering the coffee table when something catches your eye.

Under half a motherboard is a framed picture. It’s obviously old, and you’re surprised the glass isn’t cracked until you realize the casing is plastic; it shows who you assume are a young Mituna and Sollux. The older boy is probably around eight, with long, bushy hair that mostly covers his eyes, and he’s grinning wider than you’ve ever seen him. Sollux is small and pudgier than you ever thought him capable, still a toddler and in the arms of a strong-looking man, who is the only one gazing at the camera. Next to Mituna is another man, his hand on his son’s shoulder, thin as a cable and wrinkles around his eyes but he seems so happy, here with his family.

It’s _because_ he looks so happy that it takes a few seconds to process the truth. You have seen this man before many, many times.

Eridan notices your expression drop into one of horror. “Fef?” he says quietly, leaning forward to look at your face, but not at the picture.

You shove the frame at him, and he takes it, bewildered and still looking at you. “Tell me I’m wrong,” you say, voice shaking.

At this point, the rest of the group comes back into the room, Mituna saying they can play roulette with Eridan’s rifle to figure out who gets the honor of sleeping on the couch; he falls silent once he basically walks into the wall of somber that exudes from you, looking at the picture in Eridan’s hands. “They’re our dads,” he says unnecessarily, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“They’re dead,” Sollux adds bluntly. “Have been for almost a decade.”

You know Eridan has finally looked at the photo when you hear him say, “Oh, _God_.”

_I’m going to be sick_ , you think. Swallowing bile, you take the picture back from Eridan carefully, then tap the man who’s holding onto Mituna’s shoulder. “He’s not.”

Eridan looks like he’s suddenly become acutely aware of every thread in his practical Angel uniform. After several bursts of _“what?”_ with varying harshness, Eridan says, “Don’t say that, Fef, he might as well be.”

You toss the picture back onto the coffee table harder than you should; you knock a soldering head onto the floor. When the two of you remain quiet, Mituna intones, “Someone explain what the hell you’re talking about. _Now_.”

After meeting Eridan’s frantic gaze, you know you’ll be the one to explain. It should be you, anyway—it’s your mother who’s the uniting puzzle piece.

“About a decade ago,” you say, noting how this lines up with the time of their “death”, “my mother was looking for a computer programmer to help her with the Pisces Project. Everyone she’d had on her team so far had been disappointing. Whenever she has a problem, she likes to complain loudly, and the Angels heard her call.” Eridan shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, and your voice gets progressively shakier. “The head Angel called her up and said hey, I’m about to snatch a guy that managed to write a mirror code for the Lord English server and get himself in without us noticing for _weeks_ , we were just gonna kill him but if he could still be useful to you—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Mituna hisses. He’s starting to hunch like you kicked him in the gut.

“So I’m ten years old,” you continue, because Sollux is watching you like every secret of the universe is shining in your eyes, “and my mother comes home with this man who I’ve never seen before and I’d never seen someone so _empty_ , because that’s what happens to people who do ‘bad things’ and I hadn’t really understood what it meant to be _wiped_ until then, and she says ‘Feferi, this is my new drone, and he’s going to make me into God’.”

“He would _never_!” Mituna kicks a keyboard that was lying on the floor; a couple of keys fly off when it hits the wall. “Not if they took him away from us, _not if they killed Dad_ —!”

“And he didn’t,” Eridan says simply. He’s recovered his composure and is leaning heavily into the back of the couch. “You go to I&A and you’re _gone_. Your father isn’t doing shit because he _is_ dead, but his mind is still alive and doing Glenda Peixes’ bidding.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Sollux says, his enunciation free of lisp.

“Sollux…” Karkat starts, but doesn’t know how to finish.

“You—” Mituna has the same problem with the beginning, but he can at least follow through. “You _people_ ,” he looks to Eridan, then Feferi, then back again, “think you can—think you can just change sides, and then you drop a bomb like—like _this_!” He splays his arms out wide, gesturing at the world itself, and you feel the crush of guilt. He looks straight at you. “I can’t believe you. How could you say he’s alive when you _really_ meant—”

“Mituna, I’m horrified—” you try to say, but then he whirls on Eridan.

“And _you_. You come into the apartment where my parents lived wearing a uniform that _the people who murdered them_ wore _proudly_ ; how can you be on our side when you’re such a fucking delusional _cunt_ —”

Eridan barks a laugh, standing. “Do you think I even had a choice in this? It’s just more fucking brainwashing, I _had to do this_.”

Mituna takes a step closer, and Sollux leans to the side, trying not to get in the way. It abruptly hits you that there’s about to be a fight, and you try to subtly grab for the back of Eridan’s jacket but he’s already walking closer to Mituna. The older kid bares his crooked teeth, saying, “I know you spoiled rich brats don’t know the meaning of the word _no_ , but when someone wanted you to join a secret police force that kills and _wipes_ people, that is _generally what you fucking say_.”

Eyes narrowed, Eridan continues forward until Porrim jumps in between the two of them, grabbing a fistful of Eridan’s shirt and pulling his face down to hers, so their noses are almost touching. “You,” she says in a low tone, “need to drop this.”

Fists clenched at his sides, Eridan starts to snarl, “But he—”

“I do not give a single, solitary fuck,” Porrim states clearly, eyes gleaming, “about what you want to say. I’ve protected you for a long-ass time, kid, and you need to learn when to fight and when to walk.”

He takes a deep breath through his teeth. “Fine.”

The thick air in the room doesn’t dissipate. Porrim lets go of his shirt and you take his arm; after a few tugs, he exits the apartment at your side, and the second the door is closed, he goes to punch the wall. Luckily, you still have a hold on his arm, so you can yank him back; he stumbles and his knees go weak, landing him on his ass. His lips are pursed angrily. For a moment, you think he might cry.

But he doesn’t. He stands, refusing your outstretched hand even though that means it takes him four times as long to get on his feet, and says, “You shouldn’t have told them.”

“They deserved to know,” you say reasonably. “I don’t want to fight with you, too.”

As soon as you’re down the stairs, Eridan curses. “I forgot my rifle on their coffee table.”

“Let them keep it,” you say, feeling a little bit better. It was unintentional, but now they have some protection. You’re almost displeased that you didn’t think of it yourself. “They deserve to have something.”

“None of them have a weapons permit,” Eridan scowls. “And I don’t like the thought of either of the Captors with one of my guns.”

By pulling on his arm, you get him to start walking again. He shoves his hands deep down in his pockets, still taking small steps. His expression couldn’t get any stormier even if the clouds opened up right now and started pouring on his head.

About halfway home, you start to hear alarms whirring in the distance. As you get closer to your block, the noise gets louder too. The night sky had been disguising clouds of billowing smoke, and now that you’re nearer you can definitely see extra light and a touch of dry heat in the air. “Now I _really_ wish I went back for my rifle,” Eridan mutters.

You convince him to investigate, and by the time you make it to the flames, there’s already a fire truck in place, gallons upon gallons of water spraying onto the blaze. The source of the fire is a grocery store in Felt territory, the same one you and Eridan used to get rations from before you made trips back up to the Burbs. The fire hasn’t jumped to any other building yet—at least, it hasn’t on the outside—but you can feel the blazing heat all the way on the other side of the street.

“Fef,” Eridan murmurs, nudging you with his shoulder. You glance up at him. “Look at the other buildings.”

This is mostly a commercial street, with that grocery store, a small pharmacy, and some fast food places, all owned by bucks that supply it with things grown and manufactured within the plateau (and reap a vast majority of the profits). Every building on the block has had their first-floor windows smashed, with some damage even extending up to the second and third floors. You and Eridan go up to the closest one to investigate—it’s the burger joint you visited a few days ago. As you peer inside the hollow panes framed with jagged glass, you see that the place has been ransacked: chairs and tables have been flipped and some taken; a cash register lies on its side, gutted with some of its circuitry exposed and money drawer gaping open and empty; the door to the kitchen is hanging off its hinges, but you can’t see anything else past that, as it’s too dark. The only light comes from the fire down the street and the soundless blinking of a bright white alarm light, the siren from it having already been silenced.

“Hey!” a voice barks, and you turn to see a cop approaching, baton out. “Get away from there, no more fucking looting!”

“Whoa,” Eridan says, stepping forward and holding out his hands. You see the cop’s grip tighten on his weapon, but then he sees the Angel insignia on Eridan’s sweater and he lets his arm drop. “We’re just walking home. What’s going on here?”

The police officer obviously thinks it’s weird that an Angel is “walking home” in the Furthest Ring, but since Eridan is technically his superior, he doesn’t question it. “There’s been looting all over the city; this is just some of it. Some fuckface set the grocer’s on fire when there were people still in there, taking whatever the fuck they could. These people are animals, stealing everything with no consideration for those of us who work for shit.”

“What set them off?” you ask.

The officer replies to Eridan, even though you were the one who questioned him. “Dude hijacked the TV network for some weird message,” he says, shrugging. “Seems to me that it made them think that if some random chucklefuck could grasp an English-controlled system, then they could do whatever the fuck they wanted. They’re idiots, sir.”

It’s strange to you that Eridan is being referred to as “sir” by someone at least a decade older than him. Eridan takes it in stride, nodding once sharply. “Thanks for the information. Have there been any arrests?”

“Only one or two, the bastards are slippery.”

Eridan scoffs. “Do better.” Turning on his heel, he starts back the way you came, and you follow after him.

Once you’re around the corner and out of earshot, you hiss, “Why’d you say that?”

Taking a brief moment to look for cameras—it’s futile, they wouldn’t be able to hear him over the sirens anyway—he says back, “I can’t step a fucking _toe_ out of line, okay? One more misstep and I’m out, and I’m honestly not sure if at this point, ‘out’ would just mean shame and being disowned, or _execution_. Look, you know I don’t want to be an Angel anymore. But in the position we just got forced into, I _need_ to be and I have to stay in their good graces, because it could be what saves our fucking lives.” The set of his jaw is determined, but you can hear the bitterness in his tone. He glances down at you, giving you a look that you’ve learned to interpret as _please don’t be mad at me Fef_.

Sighing, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Just… don’t get a reputation. We don’t need to be alienated from the Burbs _and_ our friends.”

He grunts in acknowledgement as you turn onto your street. Or at least, you _thought_ it was acknowledgement until you notice that he’s limping. His gait is pretty stiff when he walks for obvious reasons, but right now he’s favoring his right leg and trying to look nonchalant about it. He knows you’ve realized, and he still doesn’t comment.

You wrap an arm around his waist. “Come on,” you say softly. When he refuses to lean, you say, “Being stubborn is doing absolutely nothing for you.” You can practically feel him pout, but he does put his arm around your shoulders, much more tentatively than usual. Now you can feel even more acutely the hitch in his step as he hobbles. More often than not, you get impatient with him, because you know he wouldn’t be hurting now if he’d properly cared for himself once he’d gotten out of the hospital instead of throwing himself back into Angel training. However, right now (maybe because you’re tired or grieving or trying too hard to pretend nothing had happened when he tried to tell you he was in love with you) you’re hit pretty hard with pity for him, because even though you know he pushed himself, other people also made him go too far and made choices for him. Sure, maybe you’re still a little mad about the poor decisions _he_ made, but you can feel bad for him, too.

When you make it back to the apartment, you get Eridan some ice without him asking for it, leave his crutches leaning against the side of the couch, and then you get in the shower, taking care not to get your hair wet because if you went to bed with it dripping, it’d still be damp when you woke up. Now that it’s a lot shorter, your hair doesn’t take nearly as long to dry as it used to, but what you lack in length it makes up for in thickness. You think it might be even more untamable now than it was before you hacked a couple of feet of it off.

Eridan comes into the bedroom once you’ve gotten dressed to show you a newsfeed update on his tablet. You’re pleased to see that he’s using his crutches. “Hey, take a look at this, there’s some cam footage that got released.”

It’s the same block you and Eridan came upon, before the police arrived. The store wasn’t on fire yet, but someone throws a cinderblock through the window of the place across the street, and someone else gets rid of the glass fragments along the windowsill so it’s easier to get through. “Look,” Eridan says, pointing at a figure down the street, standing on top of a taxi. “Tell me who you think that looks like.”

The man is tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a tank top that exposes his deeply tanned, well-muscled arms. He’s pretty far away from the camera so it’s hard to make out any of his actual features, but you know whom Eridan thinks this is.

“Rufioh?” you question.

“I think so,” he says, plopping down next to you on the bed. You take the tablet from him, bringing it close to your face and squinting. You don’t see any streaks of red in his hair or the tattoos on his back, but they do have similar body types.

“I’m not so sure,” you say. “Look at his hair and back.”

“You can’t really see any of that,” Eridan reasons. “Anyway, this kind of thing is right up Rufioh’s alley. Plus, if he just heard that Kank’s dead, I think he’d be pretty damn pissed. And…” he hedges, giving you a meaningful look.

You relent. “And Kankri was the one holding him back from non-peaceful forms of protest. Before we start pointing fingers, though, we need to be sure.”

Eridan shrugs. “I’m not trying to say this is fact, I’m just letting you know.” He moves like he’s going to slide his tablet onto the nightstand, then freezes. “I can sleep on the couch,” he offers, just like he did his first night back here.

Pursing your lips to hold in a sigh, you say, “Eridan, stop asking. You don’t have to make this awkward, okay?”

Bristling, he says, “Oh, _I’m_ making it awkward?”

He sounds annoyed but you can sense the underlying hurt, so you make yourself not rise to his flare in temper. “You’re allowed to pretend nothing has changed,” you say softly. “You… Ever since you told me, you’ve been acting like you’re afraid to touch me. And it’s not like I didn’t _know_ for most of the time we lived together. I knew that you… that you were…”

“That I _am_ in love with you,” he finishes, somehow managing to sound both bitter and smug at the same time. It’s an interesting combination of tones, but then again, Eridan always surprised you with what emotions and responses he could pull out of his ass. He has a gift for making people uncomfortable, and normally it doesn’t bother you, but right now it’s making your stomach churn.

It hits you that when you talked about this earlier, he never said “love”. You just _assumed_ his feelings were that strong, and you guess now your suspicions have been completely confirmed, but does it mean anything that _you_ were the first one to think about love?

Ugh, who cares? You weren’t lying when you said you didn’t have time to think about that.

“Eridan,” you say, trying to be comforting but coming off condescending, “just come to bed.”

He puffs up a little bit, like there’s more he wants to say, but in the end he just flicks off the light, strips down to his boxers, and does just that.

As you try to fall asleep, his presence is indomitable, and you haven’t felt this uncomfortable next to him since you first moved in together. He seems stiff, trying too hard to stay on his side of the bed, and after too much time spent staring at the ceiling, you finally sigh and whisper, “Why can’t you just be..?”

You trail off when you get no sign of a reaction from him. Somehow, he’s managed to fall asleep.

This frustrates you. If _you’re_ having trouble falling asleep from the awkward _he’s_ exuding, then he should be awake, too! Huffing, you roll over and move closer, facing him practically on his side of the small bed. Watching his back move with his deep breaths is more soothing than just gazing at the ceiling, and once you start counting each rise and fall of his chest, it doesn’t take long to forget your discomfort and sleep.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, you message Sollux for an update, and you practically have to beg him to respond. You feel terrible about dredging up all of this bullshit about his father on top of losing Kankri, and you apologize for that again, but Sollux says you need to drop it. He sarcastically tells you to thank Eridan for the rifle, and your roommate would be mad if he found out that you told Sollux to keep it. Just as Sollux says goodbye, Eridan comes stomping into the room, saying, “Rufioh’s trying to hold a meeting.”

You shoot to your feet. “ _What_?”

“Yeah, at Midnight Runners,” he confirms. That’s where they had the first few meetings you guys went to, before they got moved to Derse. “It’s tonight at six and I really think we should go.”

“ _Why_?”

Eridan throws up his hands, exasperated. “Because I don’t want him to get his ass killed by doing stupid shit while protesting!”

Your tablet dings; Sollux isn’t gone after all. Apparently Porrim just stormed into the living room with her own invitation to tonight’s proceedings. Surprisingly, Sollux says that they all plan to go. Since you’ve gone silent, Eridan comes to watch over your shoulder as you respond, saying that this is stupid and they’re all targets now. Sol says Porrim is pissed. Like, really pissed.

“I’ll ask Cronus if he’s found out anything about the murder,” Eridan says, sitting down next to you on the couch and propping his feet up on the table. “I should probably go see him in person so I can get another rifle, too. Maybe I can also report to my dad, try to get him off my back some more.”

“Want me to come?” you ask.

Eridan shakes his head. “I’ll try to be quick. Want me to grab anything while I’m gone?”

“Nope, just use your crutches.”

His response is to ruffle your hair. He heaves himself up with a little _oomf_ , then goes to get dressed and heads out the door.

Hours later, as you’re getting ready for the meeting, you start talking about who probably got invited. Rufioh may be impulsive, but he’s not dumb; he wouldn’t talk to anyone he thought might rat him out to the police, except for maybe Eridan. They weren’t on solid footing, since they hadn’t seen each other since the justice building fiasco and so much has changed, but even if Eridan is still somewhat pissed at Rufioh for keeping the most dangerous part of his plan close to his chest, Rufioh must still have enough faith in him to keep his mouth shut.

You guess Rufioh is just a more trusting guy than most. If just about anyone else had heard that a guy they’d crippled had been inducted into the Angel Initiative, they would’ve taken that as a sign to run the hell away.

“Okay, so us,” Eridan starts to list, “Porrim, Kanaya, and Karkat, of course. The Captors and Ray. What about Damara?”

You shake your head. “If she’s actually the leader of the Felt now, she’d never step foot in Midnight Runners.”

Eridan _tsk_ s. “Isolating a valuable ally, bad move. Rufioh’s brother will probably come. Horuss too, if they’re still a thing. He might be able to convince Latula and Aranea, and that means maybe Terezi and Vris. God, I hope Vris doesn’t come. I just want Terezi to stick a leash on her and never let her go.”

Snorting, you think some more, then sober up when an obvious name comes to mind. “What about Meulin?”

Eridan shrugs, expression distant. Like you, he’s probably thinking about how she looked when she banged on the apartment door, fresh from finding her date and long-time friend hung and bloodied.

“Poor thing,” you say sadly, “there really wasn’t anything she could do.”

You see something spark in Eridan’s gaze, and you lift your eyebrows as his lips part. Closing his mouth with a little _pop_ , he looks down at the ground, thinking.

“What is it?” you question.

Shaking his head slightly, he says, “I just… got reminded of something, that’s all. Yeah. Poor girl.”

He doesn’t sound genuine and that confuses you, because even if Eridan doesn’t really sympathize with people, he _can_ pity them, and seeing how he knows Meulin better than you do, you’d think he’d spare an emotion or two for her. You don’t scold him, though, because you’re already in a sad mood, and you don’t need to start fighting with him on top of that.

You think about other familiar faces from meetings past, but you and Eridan never mingled all that much, and you don’t really know who else Rufioh would feel inclined to reach out to. You guess you’ll see when you get there.

One perk of Midnight Runners over Derse is that it’s a lot closer to your apartment. Eridan wears his sweeping purple coat for the first time in a while (or his replacement coat, since it was confiscated and sold after you didn’t return to the apartment for two months), not because it’s cold enough for it, but because he needs something long enough to hide his rifle. You’ll need to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get trigger happy—particularly if Gamzee shows his face—and you hope no one notices the thin outline of it under the fabric.

Despite your slightly late arrival, the bar isn’t stuffed to capacity like it used to be on a meeting night. There’s hardly a soul around, save for a group of about twenty people near the back; you and Eridan beeline over there, noticing a lot of familiar faces, but no Maryam-Vantas clan yet.

“Hey Feferi, Eridan,” Rufioh greets as you approach, and his welcoming expression falters when his gaze lands on Eridan’s crutches. You wonder if Rufioh is the kind of guy to take responsibility for everything and everyone, like Kankri, or if he’s about to brush this off.

He comes up to the pair of you, letting everyone else continue conversing around him (Aradia is sitting at a table a few feet away; she gestures for you to come over and you hold up a finger, _wait_ ) and clapping a hand on Eridan’s shoulder. “I…” He starts, looking down. It’s a rare thing to see Rufioh at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, Eridan. About…” He nudges a crutch with his toe, and Eridan snorts. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Some of it’s permanent,” Eridan says bluntly, but he’s not angry. You think he would’ve been madder if this meeting took place before Kankri’s death. “Wish you would’ve said something about the fuckin’ explosives, like a sane person.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, and it sounds like he means it. “I fucked up a lot of things that day, and I feel the worst about you.”

“Uh-huh,” Eridan says, then surprisingly, he starts making his way toward Aradia’s table. You and Rufioh share a bewildered look as Eridan continues, “I think I need some more time to cool off, man. I’ll be here, but I’m still neutral. Leave me be.”

That was as civil as the confrontation between the two of them could’ve been. Before you join Aradia (who’s valiantly trying to say something nice to Eridan), you say to Rufioh, “You really shouldn’t be causing all that ruckus right now. Really bad time for it.”

Rufioh blinks hard. “Are you talking about the looting? That wasn’t me.”

Horuss calls him back to the main table then, before you can question him further. Frowning slightly, you sit down between Aradia and Eridan.

“Do you know what the deal is with this?” you ask her.

Aradia shakes her head. “I have ideas, but you probably have the same ones.”

You make small talk for a while as Eridan sits there, mostly silent. Before you know it, the meeting should’ve started half an hour ago, and you wonder what the holdup is. You catch Rufioh looking towards the entrance a few times and notice some very notable absences, so you guess he’s waiting for the Maryams, Captors, and Karkat.

(It’s weird, having to stop yourself before tacking an –es onto Vantas and referring to Karkat without his brother. You wonder when you’ll get used to it.)

Forty-five minutes in, Rufioh decides to just start. He stands on the table most of his people are around, besides the couple of small groups off to the sides, and says, “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I know this gathering is for a much more somber occasion than most, and I just want to take a minute out of my second-rate speech to have a moment of silence for Kankri.” He bows his head and folds his hands, arms limply hanging, and his lips move with a silent prayer. The bar is quiet; not even the staff moves. After a few moments, he tilts his head up and resumes. “Thanks. I… I know a lot of you think that Kankri and I didn’t get along—and we _did_ have a lot of fights—but when it comes down to it… I really liked the guy. I respected the hell out of him. And I really hope that whoever thought they could get away with killing such a strong, _good_ kid fucking _rots_ —”

“You audacious son of a bitch.”

The whole bar turns to the entrance. Porrim is standing in the doorway, her family behind her, and she glides in like a sudden squall, her expression terrifying to behold. She points a finger, damning, as Kanaya, Karkat, Sollux, and Mituna walk fast to keep up with her. It only takes a couple of seconds to cross the bar, and it looks like Porrim is about to jump on the table and strangle Rufioh herself until Mituna grabs her arm. You can see he’s shaking.

Rufioh looks dumbfounded. Swallowing, he makes the choice to jump down on the opposite side of the table, so they have a barrier between them but can still talk eye-to-eye. Having a buffer might be a good idea, you think. Porrim could possibly kill Rufioh with her bare hands. “Porrim,” he says, voice firm but understanding. “I’d ask what’s wrong, but you already know the answer to that is ‘everything’. What’s got you like…” He makes a vague hand gesture towards her. “This?”

“Don’t play fucking _dumb_ with me,” she snaps.

“Are you sure this is the best time?” Kanaya whispers, a hand on her sister’s back.

Porrim can’t be stopped. Her gaze is intense, eyes wide and lips pulled back from her teeth. “You killed him,” she says clearly.

Rufioh’s thick brows draw together, his jaw dropping. “What?”

“ _You killed Kankri!”_

“Look, I told her not to come in here like this,” Mituna says, talking fast and still trembling, “but it adds up, it all adds up, it had to have been someone he trusted and we know who it _wasn’t_ —”

Horuss stands up next to Rufioh, ready to come to his defense, but Rufioh puts a hand on his shoulder, practically pushing him back into his seat. “Why do you think I did it?” Rufioh asks, sounding hollow and hurt.

“Because this is what you fucking _wanted_ , isn’t it?” Porrim snarls, slamming her hands down on the table and leaning forward, eyes on fire. Rufioh’s expression is one of shock, mouth hanging open not in disbelief like it had been, but in distress. You look at Rufioh Nitram and you don’t see someone guilty—you see a guy just got kicked in the face even though he was already down from a punch to the gut. “Kankri, he—he wouldn’t have gone with a stranger, not when he was meeting Meulin. He was kind and naïve, but he knew better than that. It had to have been someone he knew, Rufioh, and all the signs are pointing to _you_.”

“ _What_ signs?” Rufioh demands, a grimace tugging the corners of his mouth down. By the shift of his shoulders you can tell he wants to hunch and go on the defensive, but that would just make him look culpable so he’s standing firm.

“There was another message, for _us_.” Her voice breaks and Mituna reaches for her hand, but she pulls out of his grasp. She lets Kanaya keep her hand on her back. “And when he was telling us people to trust, your name wasn’t on the list. Plus you would’ve reveled in the reaction, you wanted violence and good fucking job, now you have it—”

“I have not,” Rufioh says slowly, “participated in a second of… _that_.” He points towards the exit, but you get what he really means. “I wanted people to get mad, yeah! But out of respect for _my dead fucking friend_ who did not want a _single_ person to get hurt, I’ve stayed out of it. But now,” he laughs a little, “I kind of want to out of spite, because hey, if you think I murdered him either way, I might as well do what I want now.”

Porrim leans back a bit, pursing her lips and blinking back tears. “You killed him,” she says, but it’s not as forceful. It’s more scared.

Rufioh’s chest heaves like he’s going to sob, but his voice is firm with a tinge of desperation when he says, “Porrim, I’ll swear on anything you want me to. _I did not kill him_.”

Porrim just stares at him, lips parted and chest heaving, like she’s trying to figure out if there’s any other way this could’ve gone because she’d been so convinced this was Rufioh’s doing. Eridan surprises you by standing and shuffling behind her, placing a hand on the small of her back. She doesn’t move away from him like she did to Mituna. “Por,” he says softly, “I don’t think he’s lying.”

“But you’re not sure,” she says, sounding hollow.

“He’s as sincere as I’ve ever seen him,” Eridan replies as Rufioh looks at him with a sad sort of gratitude.

You really don’t know what to think. You hadn’t had a particularly high opinion of Rufioh until he’d seen you beaten up and he took the initiative to bring you to the hospital himself. He’d stayed with you, and he’d invited Kankri out for drinks after, even though he was technically just doing his job by helping you. You don’t remember Rufioh’s exact words to Kankri, but you remember something about Rufioh telling him to take it easy, that he deserved better. They’d sounded like friends, then. There was a degree of respect between them at that moment that’s hard to find these days.

Good people do bad things all the time. Inversely, bad people are also capable of good things. You’re not entirely sure which category he’s in, but he’s looking everyone in the eye and doesn’t seem to have an ounce of guilt to him (and you’d _seen_ him guilty earlier, when he was talking to Eridan), so even though Porrim had seemed absolutely _certain_ , you…

You have to take Rufioh’s side. Porrim loved Kankri more than almost anything; she might not be thinking clearly about this.

Porrim storms out without a backward glance. Rufioh watches her retreat sadly, then quietly tries to get order back. You and Eridan exchange a glance, then follow.

It ends up that you, Eridan, Porrim, Kanaya, Mituna, Sollux, Karkat, and Aradia all gather on the sidewalk outside the bar. Porrim sits down hard, her back against the building and her head between her knees. Karkat is the one to crouch in front of her, saying, “Hey, come on, so it probably wasn’t Rufioh, but we—we can still—”

“Karkat, I’m so sorry,” she says, sounding miserable. Her fingers rake slowly through her hair.

“Hey, what’re you apologizing for?” Karkat says. “You… you cared about that fucker just as much as I did, if not _more_ …”

“We talked to Meulin earlier,” Kanaya whispers. She’d moved to stand closer to you and Eridan, to fill you in. On the other side of Porrim, Aradia has joined the Captors. “Just on Pesterchum, but she seemed really spooked. She mentioned Rufioh—not in a good way—and we were just leaving to come here so. So she came here furious.”

Eridan asks, “Why isn’t anyone else fired up?”

“We weren’t as sure,” Kanaya responds. “Just by reading Meulin’s texts we could tell that something was… amiss? I’m not sure if that’s the right word, but she didn’t seem completely like herself. Porrim and Meulin were quite close, before Kurloz. I think she was starting to feel like she was going to get Meulin back, and _this_ happened. Plus, she’s never really liked Rufioh, so someone insinuating that he might have something to do with this is the easy thing.”

“So the neutral thing would be that this was some random crime committed by a sick fuck who just didn’t like Kank?” Eridan questions.

“Yes, that would be it,” Kanaya says, sounding wry.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Eridan thinks, staying quiet. It seems like he may have some sort of hunch, but you don’t want to talk about it here; there’s no need to set Porrim off again. You take this opportunity to ask, “What’s the hard answer?”

Kanaya looks at you, expression grim. “That someone we love has done the unspeakable.”

 

* * *

 

\--gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--

GG: what in the world is going on??

CC: You’re going to )(ave to be a LOT more specific.

GG: so ive been trying to get in touch with everyone

GG: karkat and kanaya wont talk to me

GG: aradias just been offline

GG: and i messaged rose and dave and for once they took forever to respond

GG: and find out thats because kankri is supposedly DEAD?

GG: like, what???

GG: tell me its not true

CC: It’s TRU-----E. I saw )(is body myself.

GG: god

GG: what the fuck

\--gardenGnostic [GG]  is an idle chum!--

CC: W)(ere’d you go?

CC: I t)(oug)(t we were talking about somet)(ing IMPORTANT!

CC: 38(

\--gardenGnostic [GG] is no longer idle!--

GG: i just talked to my supervisors, sorry

GG: i need a few days to arrange some things but id be very grateful if you told karkat to watch out for me, ill be getting in contact with him

GG: tell him its the most important thing in the world at this point, okay? just make him message me. or better yet, porrim or mituna! i need to talk to them so bad, but its so much harder to talk to them! they just ignore me!

CC: W)(at is your fucking D----EAL?

CC: Supervisors?! T)(e most IMPORTANT T)(ING?

CC: I was pretty sure you got t)(e memo, since we were JUST talking about it, but Kankri is D--EAD. )(ow could anyt)(ing else be more important t)(an T)(AT rig)(t now??? Don’t be a RUD----E BITC)(!

GG: :o!

GG: wow! i cant believe you

CC: 38|

GG: sigh

GG: im sorry i was harsh okay

GG: im really sorry for your loss!!! i truly am

GG: but whats really important right now is that nobody else dies, okay? no one here wants that!

CC: W)(o even AR------E you?

CC: Rose said you weren’t from )(ere, and s)(e didn’t mean )(ouston. But t)(ere’s not)(ing else L---EFT! T)(ere was WAR and D-ESTRUCTION and now everyt)(ing else is GON---E!

CC: So w)(o are you, besides just Jade? W)(-ER-E are you? W)(AT DO YOU WANT WIT)( US?

GG: …

GG: feferi

GG: my name is jade harley of the skaia foundation. i cant tell you any more than that right now because kankri dying just threw a HUGE wrench into our plans and i think we could pull it off without him but right now i need to work on convincing my grandpa that this isnt a completely lost cause now okay? and i have to work fast, because rose said that if one person died than anyone is fair game and i REALLY want to help you before anyone else dies, but youre going to have to trust me

CC: Trust you? I don’t know anyt)(ing ABOUT you!

GG: okay well YOU dont really have to

GG: make karkat talk to me

GG: have him make the call

GG: okay? thats all i need right now. i just have to talk to karkat

CC: 38/

CC: FIN-E, I’ll talk to )(im for you. On one condition.

GG: yeah?

CC: Don’t talk about Kankri to )(im in t)(e same way you just did wit)( me.

GG: i really am sorry. i know this is a bad time for you, and ill try not to fuck up with karkat. im not lying when i say that i really want you guys to be alright

\--gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--


	28. XXV- Archive 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget that I'm now doing chapter summaries [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/138961287004/the-story-so-far) and that you must highlight the read the first section!

Would it surprise you if I told you we were being watched?

Not just by Lord English, mind you. The Angels’ program may take most of our privacy away, but at least we know whom they are. Angels are not some faceless things—as I used to be one of them, I feel like I can affirm more than anyone else that they are human, even if their surveillance system is rather… intrusive, to put it kindly. It’s almost too bad that they don’t have enough Angels to watch all of the data that is pulled in through that massive information influx; I’m sure they miss a great many things while they’re busy going through tedious obstacle courses and making sure their suits fit.

On a different note, I’m going to ask you took up at the night sky. At the stars. Canaveral doesn’t spare a lot of room for wonder—they practically beat it out of you, though the cries of “we were the evil power during the war” in the Furthest Ring and “the world could not keep up with our progress” in the Burbs seem quite different. Neither of these harsh truths leave much room for amazement and the belief that the world is a magnificent place. But do me a favor and _wonder_ , for a moment. They do not teach you this in schoolfeeds anymore, but if you were smart enough to take over the Felt, then maybe you figured this out too: if the sun is the star, and all of those tiny dots of light are stars, does that mean there are more worlds? More people stuck in metal prisons? More survivors of different conflicts who barely cling to their planet’s surface? When you look at all of those dots of light, you must know intrinsically that there is _more_.

Now, what does Lord English have to do with space? If you care to, gaze at the night sky just a bit harder. On the occasional night, you will see one dot moving. It will not be a shooting star, fast and bright only for a moment: it will be slow, and you will be able to track its movement all the way across the sky. It is something caught in our planet’s orbit, and it _shines_.

What do you call a star that’s not a star, nor a product of Lord English’s observation? Well, you say it’s a satellite. Where do they come from? Not from us, and if my understanding of physics is sound, not from anyone outside of our solar system either.

As you move forward with the power of the Felt behind you, make sure to consider that Lord English isn’t the only one who is always watching you.

 

* * *

 

Fef corners you after you come home from the meeting, exhausted even though it’s not socially acceptable to go to bed yet. As you help her make pasta for dinner—well, she pours in the noodles, you wash the strainer, which is still dirty in the sink from a few days ago—she asks, “Why do you keep acting so weird when Meulin’s brought up?”

“What?” you ask over the running water, even though you heard her just fine. Maybe she won’t be able to muster up the courage to ask again.

Putting the spoon she was stirring with on the counter, she comes to stand next to you, so she’s sure you can hear her. “Do you have something against Meulin? I thought you liked her.”

“‘Like’ is a strong word,” you say, not really answering. You put the strainer back in the sink; it was the only thing in there, so now it can sit, clean, until the pasta’s done.

Fef rolls her eyes. “Oh that’s right, you don’t really _like_ anyone, so you can remain _aloof_.” She gives you a look, which makes you certain that you’ve used the word “aloof” to refer to yourself positively before, and you feel the tips of your ears heat up. “Well, you know her better than I do.”

“I hardly know her at all,” you interject.

“I never even formally met her,” Fef points out.

You shrug slightly, leaning on the counter. Your knees ache; it’s nice to take some of the weight off. “I’ve only talked to her a handful of times.”

Pursing her lips, Fef narrows her eyes a little, scrutinizing. “Eridan Ampora, I know you, and I know when you’re trying not to answer something. Can you just tell me what’s _up_?”

“Promise me you’ll keep it from them.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Keep it from _who_?”

“Oh you know who,” you say, slightly patronizing. You’re blunt. “Meulin is back with Kurloz.”

Fef blinks hard, then tries to reason, “I… I guess she’d want something _familiar_ , after what just happened with Kankri—”

“That’s what I thought at first, too,” you say, letting your brow furrow as you reason out loud about this for the first time, “but I talked to Meulin, about a day before Kankri got killed. I had to go to Cascade for something, and she wanted me to sit with her for a few minutes. She’d broken up with Makara, and she wanted him to know that she was completely done with him. Why was she meeting up with him to say that? I don’t fucking know, but she seemed uneasy. Not quite scared, but getting there.”

“The Church is shady,” Fef says, going back to stir the pasta. “Maybe she just didn’t want to say wrapped up in it?”

“As much as I hate to say this, the Church and the Angels are kind of similar,” you admit, “mostly in the way that it’s a ‘no way out’ kind of ordeal.”

“But Porrim—”

“Porrim and Kanaya ran,” you say flatly, “during a time that was, apparently, quite chaotic. I don’t know what the hell was happening, but it let them slip away. But Meulin, she also told me that she wanted to _do_ something. She felt like she wasn’t worth anything to Kankri, like she didn’t have anything to offer to the movement. And then _someone_ —I don’t remember if it was her or me—said something about wanting to speed up what Kankri was trying to do and _now_ , after people said she was acting weird when she messaged Porrim I think that _maybe_ …”

Fef’s lips part, but no words come out. She just stares at you for a minute, thinking, before she says, “Are you saying that she had _Kurloz_ kill him, or that _she_..?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I can’t prove any of this, but I just feel like—”

“Would she talk to you?” Fef interrupts. “It sounds like she’s been open to you before, so maybe if you played up your concern for her, she’d meet with you.”

Scowling, you reply, “If she’s Church, I think this is where our relationship ends. There _is_ a feud, you know.”

“What if you go through Nepeta? You worked with her for about a year, maybe she’d know more.”

“Nep never really liked me. But I’ll see if I can at least get Meulin’s chumhandle from her.”

As Fef finishes dinner, you go about messaging your ex-coworker. It takes some cajoling and fake-concern, but you eventually get Meulin’s handle, though she refuses to put in a good word for you. You feel like Nep is concerned as well, like she’s noticed something is off with her sister. Meulin is offline when you add her to your contacts; you can talk to her later, or maybe even track her down.

The next morning, you don’t feel very refreshed; it’s been a long time since you went to sleep and woke up feeling alive. You accidentally wake Fef up when you’re putting your braces on, and once your sloppy morning routines are down, you go to check the news, so you can see what happened as you slept. When you turn on the TV, you realize that finding Meulin in this mess will be impossible because it has gotten much, much worse.

Right now, there’s a montage of clips from around the city: there’s more looting, fires, a social media campaign that got #thumprising trending (you roll your eyes at that one), and so much graffiti that Gamzee could never be the source of all of it. Apparently the Felt is trying to take advantage of the chaos—you see the green suit of one of the higher-ups guarding an entrance to an alley, and you’re almost certain they’ve locked down a portion of their part of town to keep those who don’t want to get involved safe (for a price, of course). With a jolt, you remember that Damara Megido, of all people, is leading them now, and you wonder what’s changed in this short span of time.

The reporter’s voiceover takes on a different tone when a new shot appears. People are gathered at the bottom of the metal plateau and as the camera pans out, hundreds become thousands. They’re all on their feet, moving, but there’s no audio so you don’t know if they’re shouting or silent. By the body language, you’d think the former.

“All of this, just for Kankri?” Fef says, sounding awed.

Shaking your head slightly, you say, “Mob mentality. Hundreds of people cared about what happened to Kankri. Thousands were willing to take advantage when those hundreds started doing shit. Plus,” you add, walking up to the TV to point out a muscled, brown-skinned man standing on a bench with barely discernable red streaks in his hair, “good leadership can go a long way.”

“It’s definitely him this time,” Fef asks, “right?”

If that’s not Rufioh Nitram, you’ll eat your scarf. Before you can affirm, the screen cuts to black, and your stomach drops, fearing another bloody message. That had to have been all from Kankri, so the idea that this is happening _again_ frightens you to no end. Oh God, someone else you know is dead, please not Kar, _please_ not Por—

But then the theme song of _Passionate Contingence_ starts, and the rerun begins, right in the middle of the news broadcast.

You exhale in a rush, your tense shoulders relaxing. “I’m honestly surprised there wasn’t a media blackout sooner. The Angels are getting rusty.”

Just as you say that, your tablet on the coffee table pings, and you know before you even glance at it that it’s your father. He always has the worst timing.

\--amporaSeymour [AS] began pestering amporaEridan [AE]--

AS: The data for a hit has been uploaded into your computer glasses.

AS: Remind me why I keep you.

AE: yes sir

\--amporaSeymour [AS] ceased pestering amporaEridan [AE]--

It took you a few tries to get in that “yes sir” with no spelling errors; your hands have started to shake because you know what profile is going to appear momentarily. You knew this day would come, and you knew it would be rather sudden—after all, the order to kill one of your friends would always be like a punch in the gut. Dread curdles in your stomach, because only one has been featured in the news and you know whom it will be. Knowing that this would happen hasn’t readied you for the moment. An alert pops at the upper-left corner of your vision, blinking in your lens, and gulping, you click the button on the right temple to accept it.

The name of your hit is not Rufioh Nitram. It’s Wayland Canton.

For the second time in just as many minutes, you are deeply relieved. Though you know that first name—if he’s the guy you’re thinking of, he’s one of the group’s influential members for sure, Kankri held a lot of respect for him—he’s not someone you know well. Despite the fact you’re still peeved off at Rufioh (and you probably will be until you can run without pain), he was one of the first people you’d met in the Furthest Ring, and he was definitely the first friend you had at work; you honestly don’t know if you’d be able to go through with the order if you were sent to kill him. The map to Wayland’s current location shows he is rallying at the base of the plateau with Rufioh and thousands of others, near the front. His picture depicts a man in his late thirties or early forties, with a shock of wild black hair, a paunchy, short build, and nondescript gray clothing. Seeing the picture makes all of this seem more real to you, because even though you’ve never spoken to this man, you’ve been in close proximity with him.

_Remind me why I keep you._

You have to kill him. You are only useful to your friends while you are kept.

As if you knew this was coming, you went to check out a rifle at Angel headquarters yesterday. You didn’t tell Fef, but at the counter, you’d been handed a case with the best scope in the company in it. You’d known you would be used; besides sitting behind a desk, shooting was the only thing you could still do. Even after leaving for so long, your accuracy rating is still at the top of the list in the Angels—hell, probably in all of Canaveral. If there’s one thing you can do right, it’s shoot.

What you _did_ tell Fef was that the elevators are closed to the general public. No one can come up without official business, nor can they come down. Your uniform and badge got you through; there’s no way she could make it up by herself, especially since her elevator ban was officially instated. There’s a thick layer of security to get through—not Angels, but regular police officers. It’ll be a nuisance to get up there for physical therapy, so you’ll have to make do with what you can get done down here for the foreseeable future, but you can still manage to up there for actual necessities.

“Do you know if they’re still at the Captors?” you ask softly.

Fef doesn’t need you to clarify who you’re asking about. You can see her staring at you through the information on the lenses of your glasses; she knows what’s going on. “Yeah. Who is it?”

“Not one of us.”

“They’re _all_ ‘us’, Eridan.”

“I know!” you snap harshly. Fef doesn’t shrink back, but you see her hands ball into fists, her nails kneading into her palms. Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you say levelly, “I know. But I have to do it, because my Angelhood is fuckin’ important to our survival, alright?”

“How?” she retorts.

“Jade,” you say, because that’s the first thing you can come up with. “She keeps trying to talk to you guys, so every time my dad’s out of office, I have to go up there and re-wipe her. You talked to her yesterday, so I still have to go and delete that, and if there’s any merit to what she told you then we need to watch the fuck out more than ever.”

Fef still isn’t happy, but you watch her suck it up. “Why do you want to know if they’re still at the Captors’?”

“Because I’m taking you over there. Come on.”

She doesn’t protest further, but once you grab the rifle, put on a uniform, and get on your way, you can feel her seething as she walks beside you across town. The buses aren’t running, but it’s not too far, and you left your crutches at home so they wouldn’t dampen the look of the rifle slung across your back and the insignia on your sweater. The residential area of the city seems absolutely empty—either people are holed up inside or they’ve rallied on other streets. You end up standing on Sollux’s stoop for at least a minute, dread building as you think maybe these idiots have gone down there, but Mituna finally opens the door. He’s still sour-faced, like he’s not over the revelation that his father is still technically breathing but not really alive, and flatly asks, “What do you want?”

Time to humble yourself in front of him to make him more susceptible to your plea. “Help. I think I know who killed Kankri, but we need to be—”

Porrim walks up behind Mituna, eyebrows raised.

“Subtle about it,” you finish in a huff, because Porrim probably heard your whole sentence and now she’ll want in.

Fef’s gaze darts up to you; your expression doesn’t change. She thought that you were just going to drop her here so she wouldn’t languish alone in your apartment. The truth is you have a two-step plan, where the first step is killing your mark and the second is getting information out of Meulin Leijon.

Once you’re sitting on the couch, Fef squished against you on one side and Karkat on the other, you say, “I need to do something for the Angels first, but right after, I’m going to track down Meulin. I think she knows more than what she’s saying.”

Porrim sounds irked. “Eridan, you don’t know her like I do—”

“Which is a good thing,” you interrupt, crossing your legs at the ankle to curb your urge to bounce your knee. You’re nervous, but showing it would just make your joints ache even more later. “Look, I know she meant a lot to you, but there’s something off. I’m not saying she did it. Kurloz is the likelier candidate, actually, or Kurloz acting through her. I just want to talk to her, get her side of the story straight from her mouth so I can tell whether or not she’s making it up.”

She huffs, running a hand through her hair and looking away from you. Finally, she asks, “Can we talk?”

You blink hard. “We _are_.”

“Alone.” She rolls her eyes. Everyone else suddenly tries to appear very nonchalant, besides the Captors, who keep the same sour looks on their faces.

“Oh. I guess so.”

Porrim pulls you off the couch and guides you by the shoulder into one of the Captor bedrooms, shutting the door behind her. The first thing she says is, “Don’t treat me like I’m nuts.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re being condescending as shit. And I know you’re not trying to, but I’ve learned to stomach it when Feferi does it because she’s at least well-meaning. You’re just being a dick.” You bite the inside of your lip, holding back the declaration of _you hurt my feelings_ because she looks up, meeting your gaze, and you can tell she knows. Before you can get defensive, she sighs and her forehead falls onto your shoulder. “Eridan, I’ve had a rough week. Don’t make it worse.”

“That is the understatement of the century,” you remark, reaching to pat the back of her head. “You know I’m just trying to help.”

“The Makaras are really fucking dangerous. I don’t need you getting wrapped up in this.”

“I know they are.”

“No you don’t,” Porrim says firmly, cutting you off. “Sure, the Church and the Angels have a feud. But you don’t really know. You can’t.”

She sounds haunted. Pursing your lips, you tug her to the bed and make her sit down with you. “I’m still going to do this, because I feel like I need to, but I want your help. If Meulin is with Kurloz, on Church property, where would she be willing to meet me?”

“Eridan—”

“If you don’t want me to get hurt,” you say, tone neutral, “this is the best way. I… I’m going to do it no matter what, Por.”

Closing her eyes and massaging her temples like she has a headache building, Porrim says without venom, “You’re a stubborn shit, and one day, it’s going to get you killed.” She sounds sad, and she doesn’t let you respond before she continues, “There’s a bakery, a block south of the property. It’s close enough that she might be willing to come alone. Tell her you’ll buy her a cupcake and you’ve got her, but... don’t—”

“I won’t hurt her.”

“It’s got to be Kurloz.” She sounds desperate. “The others think I’m fucking blind to it but I _know_ she’s changed since she met him, though I don’t think it’s enough to where she’d kill someone she loved. She had strong ideals and I know she didn’t know what to do to make them happen, but it… it wouldn’t have been this.”

You remember Meulin looking nervous and saying, “ _I still feel like I have to_ do _something._ ” For Porrim’s sake, you hope you’re wrong and this has nothing to do with either of them, not even Kurloz. Gamzee would be easy. You’re already fucking livid with him; might as well have a completely legitimate reason to want to kill him.

Instead of responding to Porrim’s declaration, you ask, “What happened to the rifle I left here?”

“It’s in Mituna’s closet,” she says, running a hand through her hair and nodding to the small door near the corner of the room. Eyeing the gun slung over your back with distastes, she questions, “You want it back?”

Pushing your better judgement away, you shake your head. “You know how to shoot it?” You completely expect a “no” and you’re willing to give her a shooting lesson, but Por nods. After taking a second to regroup, you say, “I’ll see if I can get the tracker to turn off, just in case,” as you start to pick at your nails. You’re getting antsy, restless. It’s been too long since you’ve killed and you’re starting to feel sick with the closeness of it.

Porrim doesn’t speak as you cross the room and open the door. This obviously isn’t a normal person’s closet; there isn’t a pair of pants or coat in sight. Instead of clothes, there’s more computer equipment—overflow from the Captor Compound, probably. They’ll need to head over there if you can convince Mit or Sol to do what you want. The rifle is tucked near the door, laying on a keyboard, and you lift it so you can fiddle with the touchscreen keypad on the butt of the gun. You do a thumbprint check to unlock it and put in your member ID to disable the tracking; for a moment you wonder why something like this can be disabled, but there must be _some_ practical use for it because you remember learning the procedure years ago, when you were shadowing the now-dead Abraxas.

The procedure doesn’t take long. In a minute, you’re stowing the gun back in the closet, and Porrim is beckoning for you to come back to lean against the bed with her. Looking at the dark circles under her eyes and the defeated slump of her shoulders, you comply. At the end of the day, even though you’re ignoring Porrim’s wishes to go speak to Meulin, you know there’s very little you wouldn’t do for her. “Your roots are coming in,” she says, wry as she knocks on your widow’s peak. You feel a swell of affection for her as she then ruffles your hair and you squawk, trying to stop her from ruining your hairdo and she thinks, _You’re family too_ , and you respond, _I know_. “I’ll re-dye them for you some time soon.”

You gather her up and squeeze her tight, trying to say in the gesture that you’re still so sorry for what happened to Kank and you’re going to try your damnedest to fix some flawed, fucked up part of it. “Knock ‘em dead, kiddo,” she says, and even though you didn’t tell her that you’ll be killing someone first, you’re determined to use her words and get through it.

After squabbling with Sollux for a good ten minutes about what to do, Mituna throws an earpiece at you and tells you to get out. Everyone will be able to listen in from the apartment, but Sollux and Fef are gonna head down to the Captor Compound: Sollux to run everything, and Fef to be on the comms with you. Once you’re out on the street, you head in two separate directions, Fef giving you a meaningful look in lieu of actually saying goodbye in front of Sol. You only get a block before you stop and sit on a bench, knees smarting. Checking the map on your computer glasses, you see that Wayland is still down at the base of the plateau near the elevators, which are about three miles away from here. Zooming out, you look around for a good vantage point nearby. There’s a pretty tall building about half a mile away that’ll serve your purpose; a fire escape snakes up the side of it that may give you some trouble if your knees are _already_ bothering you, but the railings seem close enough together that you should be able to hoist yourself up them.

Once you check the bus schedule and see there’s one five minutes away, you decide to cross the street and wait for it. That short rest has made it easier to walk, and you can hardly even tell that you’re injured from the outside. With your braces still taking eighty percent of your weight, walking is _easy_ now, compared to before your brief stint with fentanyl. You should probably start weaning yourself off the braces for out-of-apartment stuff, but you think about the small, shuffling steps you have to take even when you just need to get up and take a piss in the middle of the night, you can’t think that transitioning off the braces is going to be easy.

The bus comes, and you take it to a stop a block away from your chosen building. You check in with your father as you head towards it, opening your glasses feed to him so he can watch if he feels like it and your entire strike is reported. The Captors’ earpiece is in place, but it’s off, so there’s nothing to interfere with your glasses’ separate comms unit. Your father doesn’t attempt to speak to you, but as you click on your silencer and splicer, you can almost feel his heavy presence at your temples. With sweat already gathering on your forehead, you begin the ascent up the fire escape.

It doesn’t take long for you to set up on the roof. As you unsling your rifle from around you and detach the stand from the barrel of the gun, one of your prosthetic fingers screeches on the metal, making you flinch. Lips pressed tightly together, you make sure the scope is calibrated correctly and find Wayland, one last time, on your computer glasses. Once he’s confirmed in the crowd, you push your glasses onto your head, lean into the sight, and wait for dead wind and a clear shot.

(You wonder if Fef told them what you were doing when you were alone with Porrim. Maybe she’s telling Sollux now. Maybe you’ll get back to the apartment and they’ll hate you, because even though you don’t know him, _they_ certainly do.)

( _Remind me why I keep you_.)

The wind stops. The person who was standing just behind Wayland shifts slightly to the right. Breathing out in a slow stream, you take the shot, hands steadier than they’ve been in months.

You don’t even see the shot land; he’s just suddenly out of view, and when you tick downwards a tiny bit, you see him on the ground, the crowd jumping away from him fast as if there will be more bullets, and looking around frantically. Someone runs up next to him, kneeling down.

Barely remembering to flick on the safety, you drop the gun. It clatters to the roof, and your glasses fall off your forehead and back onto your nose. Your father’s message— _glad to see that your skills haven’t deteriorated in this particular department—_ blinks across the screen, and you almost want to throw up.

Killing has never bothered you. _Never_. It didn’t affect you when you were shadowing Abraxas and killing for the Angels, nor when you were at the BHG, shooting people and cutting off thumbs for sums that didn’t nearly amount to a human life. You never used to think people were worth anything, because everyone was fodder to feed Canaveral and even though you were more important than most, the only life you ever dreamt of was one of service. Now that you know there’s something else out there, it’s harder than ever to stay trapped here, killing people you probably would fucking _like_ just because you don’t want to get on the Angels’ bad side.

The Angels may have truly killed you, but your real first death was burning your eyes from lye in the pipes on your second day in the Furthest Ring, because that was the beginning of who you are now.

Swallowing bile, you pick up the rifle, checking to make sure you didn’t shatter the scope when you dropped it. The gun seems fine, and you sling it back over your shoulder, then shove your hands in your pockets and force yourself to take a few deep breaths. You shakily walk back to the fire escape, descending slowly and relying heavily on the railing to keep you upright, and begin the trek to the Captor Compound.

Though you and the other two had split from the apartment, the Captor Compound is pretty close to the plateau, only a block from the elevators. You can hear the chaos from the protest and see people hanging back, watching from a bit of distance, as the crowd continues to rally despite the murder you just committed. Hunching, you hope your frame hides your gun well enough, and you enter the compound’s apartment building.

Hell, you wouldn’t even call these hovels “apartments”: though the ones you’re used to down here are in pretty bad shape, this one is _tiny_ —it’s the size of your closet back home, and it gets fucking _hot_ in there with all of the tech equipment that’s constantly running. You find the correct room and knock on the door, saying, “Hey, it’s me,” to the plain slab of repurposed plastic so they know they’re not being raided.

Fef opens the door, eyebrows raised, and you hand her the rifle. “There’s no way I can take this through that crowd,” you say as she hesitantly takes it, “it’d cause to much havoc.”

“You shouldn’t wear your uniform either,” Fef says, clearly unhappy. She’ll be cross with you because of what you’d just done for at least the next few days, but you don’t think she understands how important it is for you to stay in your position.

Nodding in agreement, you strip off your sweater; you hear Sollux snort, and you can practically see him rolling his eyes. Since it’s not the formal uniform, you’re only left in a simple white dress shirt, so you roll the sleeves up to your elbows as Fef musses up your hair, getting rid of the part and combing it back to some semblance of how you normally wear it. There’s nothing you can do about the pants, but at least it looks like you could be a waiter at Prospit or somewhere similar.

When you leave, Fef doesn’t hug you this time either. You feel the absence of it as you walk back onto the street, hands shoved deeply into your pockets.

It turns out you’re too much of a coward to go to the front doors and face Rufioh, as well as the security there, so you decide to use the freight entrance a few blocks down. As you head over there, you pester Meulin. It takes ten minutes and a lot of reassurances that it’s just you and you’re genuinely worried about her well-being (plus a promise to buy her a cupcake) for her to agree to meet you at the bakery Porrim talked about. This confirms that she _has_ been living on Church property, since there’s no way she’d be able to get up to the plateau right now, even if she cited Kurloz as her benefactor.

The security personnel at the freight elevator are confused as to why one person needs an elevator that’s meant to transport huge shipments, but no one is currently using it, so they let you up once you flash your badge. The ride up to the top takes much longer than normal, seeing as this elevator is used to hauling much larger weights so it’s calibrated to go slower. You let yourself sit on the ground as it goes up, up, up, stretching your legs out in front of you and giving yourself a brief rest. Before you forget to do it later, you flick on your earpiece and set it to the correct frequency.

“Hello?” you hear Fef ask once you’re settled.

“Hello, hello,” you respond, tilting your head back so it rests on the metal wall of the elevator. Your voice echoes in the cavernous space. “I’m on my way up. You’ll know when I’m there.”

“Be careful,” she reminds you.

“I know.”

She sounds genuinely worried when she says, “I mean it.”

“So do I,” you say, softer.

She stays quiet; you can practically hear her pressing her lips together. In the background, you can hear the clacking of Sollux’s keyboard.

Too soon, you’re at the top, and you’re running over a list of things to say to Meulin as you use your tablet to call a cab. As you near the Church property, you begin to feel nauseated—you were raised to avoid this part of town at all costs, and now you’re going to meet with someone who is possibly so entrenched in it that she killed someone she once loved. It’s not a comforting thought; a week ago you thought Meulin would never try to hurt _anyone_ , let alone you personally, but now you have an image of her leaping across the table and digging her claws into your throat stuck in your head.

She’s waiting for you when you reach the bakery. You nod at her when you enter and immediately go to the counter to buy her a cupcake. Even though you’d shed the identifiable parts of your uniform, you still feel like you stick out here, the stark white of your shirt and pants obviously off-putting to the woman who takes your order. You bring Meulin the cupcake you promised, dropping into the chair across from her and sliding it across the table. You hadn’t noticed anyone blatantly Church in here, but you don’t doubt Kurloz is nearby.

“Hi,” you say, trying to offer her a smile. The expression feels strained, and you hope she thinks you’re just tired. Though she doesn’t seem as frazzled as she was when you’d last seen her, you can still tell she’s had her fair share of lost sleep lately. “How’re you holding up?”

Meulin takes a few bites of her cupcake, licking the frosting off her lip before replying, “As well as you’d expect.”

“I see you’re, well…” You gesture outward with your hand. “Here.”

“Yes,” she says, neutral. Her eyes look like she’s waiting for your judgement.

“Wanted something familiar?” you ask, sounding wry. Your smile turns crooked and a fair amount more genuine as you slowly slink into the mindset you need to in order to get through this conversation.

Her shoulders droop; she seems relieved, not as nervous. “Yeah. It’s been a hard few days.”

“I’m sure,” you say empathetically. “I can’t imagine being the one who’d discovered him.”

She blinks hard at that, and you’re surprised to see genuine grief in her expression. Her words, however, sound robotic, layered in that dreamy quality you’re used to hearing from her sometimes. “It was terrible.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” you say, putting your elbow on the table and resting your head in your palm. You know she’s looking at the metal fingers curling around your chin. “Talking helps.”

“I doubt that’s what they teach you in the Angels,” she says, sounding put-upon, “unless this is an interrogation.”

You force a light laugh out, letting your teeth gleam. “Is that what Kurloz tells you? You have to know there’s a feud, so a lot of what he thinks is… severe. Not his fault.”

Refusing to damn or curse Kurloz makes Meulin relax some more. She takes another bite of her cupcake. “I always thought you were too nice to be one of them.”

Let the record show that Meulin Leijon is the first person on the face of the planet who’s ever called you “nice”. It makes you want to preen. “I’m going to choose not to take that as an insult,” you chuckle. You sort of wish you’d gotten something to eat for yourself, but you think it’d just turn into a lead ball in your stomach due to your nerves. “Kurloz is treating you right?”

Her face falls slightly as she says, “Better than he should.” Her tone turns lighter when she adds, “It’s hard taking that question seriously, from you. You’re younger than my little sister!”

“Hey, I’m actually a year older,” you counter, and she snorts, rolling her eyes. Though she’s smiling, you can see a dull sort of sadness in her eyes. You wonder if it was brought on by thoughts of Kurloz or Nepeta. “So…” You’re trying to be tactful, you really are. You’re building a nice rapport here, and she seems to think you’re genuinely interested in her welfare rather than fishing for information that will condemn her or Kurloz as Kankri’s murderer. You try to think of something that’ll steer the conversation back on track. “Was it you or Kurloz?”

Meulin’s head tilts slightly to the side. “Excuse me?”

Well, there goes your notion of tact. Quirking an eyebrow, you clarify lightly, “Who killed Kankri.”

Meulin goes rigid; she drops her last bite of cupcake onto the table as she stares at you with wide eyes. “ _Excuse me_?” she repeats, trying to sound firm as her voice shakes. The line of her brow is hard, but you can see her bottom lip starting to tremble.

You read her body language. “Oh, it was you then. That was my bet anyway, I didn’t think Makara was the kind who’d concern himself with martyring someone, though maybe from a jealous ex perspective…”

She seems pissed that you’re acting so nonchalant, and she snaps, “It was _right_.”

Now both of your eyebrows are shooting towards your widow’s peak, and you’re the one who asks, “Excuse me? What the _fuck_ about that was _right_?”

“The results,” she hisses, looking as if she might cry because you see the remorse, the regret, and the resolve, all in one, even as her gaze drifts over your shoulder—

Something bashes into your skull from behind and the world goes white, then black.

 

* * *

 

“Eridan?” Feferi hisses into her mic. There’d been a smack and a clatter, then nothing. “ _Eridan_?”

“Did you kill him?” Meulin asks, shaky. Her voice seems farther away. “God, ‘Loz, I hope you didn’t, he’s still just a _kid_.”

“He’ll be up in under a minute, we need to move,” someone with a deep, scratchy voice says. _Loz_. Kurloz. The eldest Makara son isn’t much of a talker, but Feferi recognizes the voice from when she spoke to him at the demonstration gala an eternity ago. With a slight snort, he says, “Anyway, he took the white. He’s no longer a child; I should have splattered his brain across the walls.”

“Christ, _don’t_.”

“For you, I will refrain, even though you’ve invoked the Lord’s name in vain.”

Meulin breathes in and out, the air shuddering in her chest. “He’s going to tell everyone. Dammit! Maybe we _should_.”

“Look in his ear.” There’s a rustle—Feferi assumes Kurloz is turning Eridan’s head, and it makes her feel sick—then a muffled tapping sound. “Others have _already_ heard. If you want to kill him for being the messenger, then fine, but it will not preserve you.”

Her voice is small, lost. “God, they’re all going to hate me, I…” Meulin swallows. It echoes in Feferi’s ear. “It’s worth it. It has to be worth it.”

“He’s stirring. We must go.”

 

* * *

 

When you blink awake, you’re immediately aware of a pounding pain in the back of your head. You groan, your fingers reaching to grope the throbbing area; there’s a decently-sized lump forming on your skull, but no blood to your surprise. “Eridan?” Fef says apprehensively in your ear.

The tip of someone’s boot nudges your cheek. Your brain seems to want to tack on _again_ to the end of that sentence.

Letting your eyes focus on what’s above you, you prop yourself up on an elbow and look at Vriska, then Terezi. The world spins around them.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you ask flatly.

“Watching you get clobbered,” Vriska replies, sounding smug as she puts her hands on her hips. Terezi just rolls her eyes.

Ignoring Fef’s worried questions, you say, “Are you gonna just stand there, or are you gonna help me up?”

Each girl grabs an arm and they haul you to your feet. As you look around the shop to see how the other patrons and personnel have taken this development, you notice that they all seem incredibly busy with whatever they’re doing, whether it’s wiping down a counter or eating their pastry. They’re all Church people, you know now for sure—they took one look at Kurloz Makara and turned a blind eye to his violence. Vriska lets go as soon as you’re on your feet and you blink hard, trying to ignore the slight rotating of the room.

“I think I’m concussed.”

“Let’s get out of here!” Terezi says merrily.

She doesn’t relinquish your arm as she drags you out of the bakery, and for that you’re grateful, because each step feels wobbly and you don’t think you could walk in a straight line on your own. This isn’t a bad concussion—you know, you’ve had much worse—but right now all you want to do is go home, ice your head and your knees, and take a nap.

“We’re are you headed?” Ter asks.

“Freight elevators,” you reply, which means you have to take a sharp turn, as they were about to drag you across the wrong intersection. The world tilts sharply for a moment; Ter’s grip on you is the only reason you don’t fall into an inelegant heap. “I’m okay,” you say quietly to Fef as you’re tugged towards the elevators. “I’m heading home, have someone walk you back to the apartment. If you want, that is.”

Fef just hums, like she’s a little pissed off that you’d ignored her at first, and the line goes dead.

“Talking to your overlord?” Vriska says with a snort.

“Fuck off,” you snap. “How’d you find me?”

Vriska flips her hair over her shoulder, offhandedly saying, “Well, we just so happened to be in the neighborhood, and we—”

“—followed you from midtown here,” Terezi interjects easily, “because we were wondering what the fuck you were doing. An _Angel_ , going into _Church territory_?” She gasps dramatically.

“Alone!” Vriska exclaims. “Like a fucking _moron_!”

“Physically, at least,” Terezi says. “I know you had a handler, but we couldn’t resist going to see what would unfold.”

Vriska laughs, “And maaaaaaaan, it was worth it! You got fucking _clubbed_.”

“Wow, really?” you say sardonically. Your head is pounding in time with each step you take. “I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

Terezi lets go of your arm, but keeps walking. Without her grip to ground you, you list slightly to the side, and you clench your jaw, making yourself pull back into line with them. You’re sure Vris wanted to see you crash into a wall, but you won’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, you trip over a crack in the sidewalk; Terezi grabs you again, keeping you on your feet. You growl a thanks. She just cackles.

When you make it to the commercial elevator, you say your goodbyes. It doesn’t escape your notice how Vris and Ter behave like a unit now, like the Scourge Sisters really _are_ back.

As they retreat and you continue into the building, that thought makes you shudder. You know there are worse things than Vriska and Terezi teaming up to take on the rest of the world, but you can’t think of many.

By the time you reach your apartment, Fef is back, and she’s no longer mad at you for your delayed response to her. You open the door and she springs up from the couch, closes the distance between the two of you in a couple of strides, and latches onto you hard enough that you stumble back into the wall. You let yourself slide down it, wrapping your arms around her so she comes to the floor with you, her face buried in the crook between your neck and shoulder.

“What happened?” she asks, voice muffled. It feels like she’s trying to break your ribs. You think of Kankri hanging dead, just outside; that image has come to you a lot lately, especially now when Fef could’ve lost someone else. You don’t know how long you were out, but it probably was only ten or twenty seconds—that’s ten to twenty seconds where Fef could’ve thought you were dead.

“Kurloz knocked me out, got Meulin out of there.” You voice is a bit garbled as well, since you’re speaking though a mouthful of her frizzy hair. “I think I got a slight concussion, but I’m hardly dizzy anymore. It’ll pass by tomorrow.”

“Want me to get you ice?”

You nod, but to contradict that, you don’t let go of her. Fef’s grip minutely loosens on you, but when she realizes you aren’t inclined to let go, she adjusts her head slightly and holds on tighter.

Your arms get tired after too much of that, so you reluctantly let her up. She helps you to your feet, keeping a hand on your hip when a lance of pain goes though one knee and it buckles, then helps you to the couch. As she goes to fetch ice and a washcloth to wrap it in, you take off your computer glasses and lay against the couch cushions, tilting your head back and closing your eyes.

Fef comes back a few minutes later, sitting next to you. Before she can hand you the ice, you swing your legs onto the opposite side of the couch and lay down, your head in her lap. You’re crippled and concussed; even if you’ve been trying to put some distance between you and Fef, you can let yourself be self-indulgent, just this once. You’re tall enough and the couch is small enough that you have to hook your knees over the armrest and let your feet dangle, but when Fef huffs a laugh and blessed coolness gently comes over the lump on your head, you’re definitely comfortable.

“I need to go back to the Captors,” you sigh after a few minutes, flipping so you’re facing the ceiling. Fef raises her eyebrows, one of her fingers curling around a lock of hair at the base of your neck. “I wasn’t thinking clearly earlier. They’ll… they fucking _need_ to do something about Meulin now, fuck, _I_ should talk to Cronus—”

You pull your tablet out of your pants pocket and open up Pesterchum to talk to him as Fef says, “Eridan, you just got smacked hard enough to pass out, you don’t need to do anything else tonight.” Her _especially talk to your dickbag_ _brother_ is implied.

“Look, even if Cronus is shitty, he’s still the one working on the case because _I_ asked him to, and if he needs to track her down, he should start now rather than later.” It only takes a few seconds to drag the unedited audio recording you’d taken into the chat window and send “meulin leijon level 5 killed kankri” before logging right back out, tossing your tablet onto the coffee table, and rubbing your temples with one hand just to cover your eyes. It’s like the bright light from your tablet aggravated your headache. “God, I… I gotta talk to Porrim—”

“She told me to make you rest,” Fef says, tone firm. “This was bad for them, duh, but you’ve done all you could today. Take it easy now and we can see how they’re holding up tomorrow.”

You let your eyes fall shut. “She probably won’t get a trial,” you say quietly. Fef knows you’re not talking about Porrim anymore. “She might’ve been able to transfer into the Church by now.”

If Meulin and Kurloz’s relationship was at all serious before all of this—and from recent developments, it seems like that’s the case—she probably would’ve tried to go under the Church hierarchy rather than stay with the rest of Canaveral, so she could deal with their legal system (which would, of course, pardon her) instead of the one run by Angels. If Kurloz is staying close to offer her protection, that either means she’s not in their system and he doesn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to actually arrest her, or she _is_ well and truly theirs and he’s trying to make sure no one outside can hurt her.

Something about the ending to your meeting strikes you as odd (particularly, the part where you’re still alive), so you frown slightly, asking Fef, “After I got knocked out, could you hear anything?”

She takes a shuddering breath and replies, “Yeah. Meulin asked Kurloz not to kill you, then changed her mind, but at that point it sounded like Kurloz had made his own mind up. He wanted to kill you, but didn’t. Said it was futile.”

“Any idea as to why?”

Fef shrugs. “He probably saw Vriska and Terezi and didn’t want to make a scene in front of them.”

You hadn’t mentioned them to Fef, so you guess she could hear that whole conversation too. You sit in silence for a little while, enjoying the coolness of the ice and Fef’s hand in your hair, until you ask, “Are they still censoring the news?”

“Probably.” Fef turns on the TV anyway, and sure enough, they’re still running old episodes of you and Kar’s favorite drama series. Fef rolls her eyes but she knows you like it, so she keeps the volume on low and you watch that until it’s obvious you both are going to fall asleep on the couch unless you get to bed.

When you wake up the next morning, you have a Pesterchum notification. Normally you keep your tablet on silent, but with all the bullshit going down, you’ve been keeping the volume up these past few nights, and apparently someone has finally utilized your generosity. However, it isn’t one of your friends, like you expected: it’s your father.

\--amporaSeymour [AS] began pestering amporaEridan [AE]--

AS: It seems you have misplaced a rifle.


	29. XXVI- Archive 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that there are [chapter summaries](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/138961287004/the-story-so-far) on my tumblr, just in case you don't remember exactly what's going on. Between this chapter and the last, I posted a short [ficlet](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/146481503039/help-an-insurgency-ficlet) in the 'verse.

Some Short Thoughts on Seymour Ampora’s Angels:

Angels may be fast and silent, but they do not always strike true. I know from much experience all over the board that (even though there are many reasons for common folk to fear the Angels), those demons dressed in white are not the most sinister beings lurking in our midst.

They may be the subject of many nightmares, but they are not the source.

 

* * *

 

\--cuttlefishCuller  [CC] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA] \--

CC: Sollux?

CC: Sollux?????

CC: SOLLUX!!!!!!!!

TA: je2u2 chrii2t FF iim here what ii2 iit?

CC: Get everyone out of your apartment RIG)(T NOW!!!

CC: Do you )(ave scrambler gear? Anyt)(ing t)(at could )(elp you??? T)(ey’ll be looking and we’re trying to run too but leave t)(e rifle o)( my God I can’t believe t)(is is )(appening so soon

TA: feferii what the ever loviing FUCK are you talkiing about?!

CC: -Eridan just talked to )(is dad and now )(e’s convinced t)(ey’re coming for us.

CC: ALL of us! See I’ll even drop my quirk to show you how SERIOUS this is!!!!!

CC: Get OUT!

TA: okay let me get thii2 2traiight.

TA: thii2 ii2 iit? thiis when they come for u2, blatantly?

CC: YES!

TA: then meet u2 at the junkyard the 2econd we go offliine, do you under2tand?

CC: I think so. Sollux?

TA: ye2?

CC: Be careful.

CC: …

CC: ……

CC: HURRY!

TA: ii am goiing a2 fa2t a2 ii fuckiing can. any iidea what 2et thii2 off?

CC: Eridan thinks they were able to trace his rifle after all.

CC: Is this Calliope?

CC: Is that’s what’s coming?

TA: how diid you know?

TA: aa?

CC: …Yeah. But I don’t know what it is.

TA: well you’re about two fiind out. don’t worry about the camera2.

\--twinArmageddons [TA] ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC]\--

You’re forced offline, unable to connect to the network. Eridan, who’s been clutching the strap to his gun as he reads over your shoulder, says, “The junkyard’s all the way at the wall, there’s no way we make it.”

“That’s why we’re meeting them at Derse,” you say, yanking the bag you’d thrown together off the bed. Eridan slings on his as well, settling it between his shoulder blades where his rifle rests to try to obscure it. He packed an Angel uniform to fool people who don’t know what’s happening, but right now he’s in jeans and a gray long-sleeved shirt, crutches folded and packed in his bag so he’s inconspicuous. “Let’s go, you know better than anyone that the Angels are fast.” He questions you with a glance— _why Derse?_ —and you answer, “The junkyard is where Aradia gets most of her stuff for Curios and Culminates. Sollux knew the Angels would be watching our messages, and now they’ll look there, while I realized what he really meant.”

“They’ll go to Captor’s place first,” Eridan says, his strides to the front door longer than you’ve seen in months. “We need to walk to Derse, and take the long way. They’ll stop any buses they suspect we’re on, and even if we’re out in the open walking, they wouldn’t suspect us to do that, since I’m still hurt.”

“Derse is far,” you say, as Eridan pauses, digging through the front pouch of his backpack. He produces his silencer, flicks it on, and shoves it in his front-left pocket. He gives you a look, and you know it means to stay close to him on that side. Heading out, you close the door behind you, wondering if you’ll ever be back. Softly, you continue, “Can you make it all the way there?”

“Don’t bother locking it, Fef, come on.” Eridan heads for the stairs and out of habit, you grab his waist to help him down. He doesn’t lean as much as he used to, and you get to the sidewalk quickly. As you descend, he says, “I have to make it, don’t I?”

Pursing your lips, you follow a beat behind him. He reaches for your hand, pulling a little so you’re practically in his way, pressed up against his left side. “There’s not a lot of range on the silencer, Fef. You need to stay close.”

“Does it even work with two people?”

Eridan’s pursed lips tell you what you really need to know. “It should, if you say right here,” he says.

Derse is about five miles southeast of the apartment. Eridan keeps the fast pace going for about a mile, but you watch his steps get shorter and you slide your hand out of his to link your arms at the elbow instead. You use this new leverage to slow him down. He knows what you’re doing, so he protests, “Fef, we need to—”

“Don’t over-exert yourself,” you say, looking up at him. He frowns down at you, the smallest trace of strain evident in the slight trembling of his lower lip. “We have a long way to go. Don’t waste your energy now.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, I’ll make it,” he says through his teeth. You think it’s from frustration, not pain.

By the time you arrive at Derse, Eridan’s arm is heavy across your shoulders and you feel like you’re gripping his waist hard enough to bruise. As your trek went on and many parts of town were seemingly deserted, the pair of you grew more and more antsy, just waiting for something to pop out of the shadows.

When you reach the underground parking garage where the service elevator is, you realize that the half of the Furthest Ring that isn’t protesting at the bottom of the plateau is here.

The lot is packed with people, standing in line to get bottles of water and little packets of instant meals that they normally give to people in Belt factory jobs. They’re consumed in only a few bites, but they fill you up like you at a decent-sized meal. With all of the stores in the Furthest Ring shut down, this must be where a lot of people are getting food. Standing up front to monitor everything is Crowbar, Scratch’s old second-in-command. It looks like Damara kept him.

“I thought Derse was technically the Midnight Crew’s,” you murmur to Eridan.

“I guess the Felt’s new management decided to do something about it,” he whispers back, still heading for the elevator.

As you approach Curios and Culminates, you can hear indistinct yelling that grows clearer as you continue down the hall. Eridan pulls away from you, flicking off the silencer and stumbling as he does so. He puts a hand to the wall for support. “Eridan—”

“It’s alright,” he says, sounding drained. Pursing your lips, you listen to now-discernable argument coming from the shop.

“—do we even know this wasn’t a huge fucking mistake?”

“We _did_ get here fine. No trouble whatsoever. They could’ve jumped the gun—”

“FF was _frantic_ , guys. Look, maybe taking down our source of information was hasty but if it protected us…”

“Fucking hell, Sollux, the information came from _Eridan_. You know, the Angel?”

“Hang on, that’s not fair.”

“Porrim—”

Eridan pushes the door to the shop open, and all the heads in the room swivel to the pair of you. Porrim, Mituna, Sollux, Kanaya, and Karkat are all gathered around the counter, but Aradia is noticeably absent. Before you can ask where she is, Eridan raises his eyebrows, saying, “I don’t know about you, but if I received a direct threat from the head of the Angel Initiative, I’d start planning my goddamn funeral. You’re all invited, it’ll be on the 18th.”

One ominous message doesn’t quite count as a “threat” to you, even as passive aggressive as it was. A small part of you wonders whether Eridan _is_ just being overdramatic, as per usual, but if you show hesitance, you feel like that would at least make the Captors turn on him immediately. You have to stick by him until you have a concrete reason to think he’s not being rational.

“What took you so long?” Karkat asks, sounding annoyed, but you know him well enough to see the concern in his expression.

You start to say, “Eridan’s still not—”

“Our apartment’s farther away than yours,” Eridan snaps, shooting you a look. “Maybe if _someone_ hadn’t crashed the entire fuckin’ network, we’d still have a form of communication. Funny how that works.”

“Whoa, _what_?” Sollux scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s _you_ who wanted the system crash! If you wanted Lord English to go down, everything else had to go with it, so don’t be _snide_ , you pompous fucking prick.”

Eridan lays on the sarcasm thick. “You’d think someone with your technical prowess would be able to think of some cockamamie B.S. that would take down Angel shit while still leaving some for us. Good job at supporting the plebs, Sol.”

“ _Calliope wasn’t done_ ,” Sollux snarls. You can almost see steam coming out of his ears. “I had the core down: force through firewalls, get into Lord English’s code and fucking wreck it while damaging the network itself and disrupting connections between computers, but the nuance wasn’t there. The source of the code was _absolutely_ traced back to me and the apartment. Our tracks weren’t covered; there wasn’t a deletion clause, I was in the middle of writing it. I was going to rig it so we’d have a personal network up and running that was separate from the city’s and impenetrable, but when someone IMs you and says ‘oh hey Sollux there are people coming to kill you’, _you don’t have time to worry about that shit_! So don’t you criticize me and _my fucking code_ while the tracer on _your_ fucking rifle got us into this mess.”

“Okay, look, I can listen to you two morons scream at each other all day,” Karkat breaks in, holding his hands up in a half-placating, half-exasperated manner, “but I think most of us are a little bit unclear about how the situation went from _someone killed my brother so let’s lay low_ to _the Angels are coming for us._ So if Eridan,” he looks pointedly at the mentioned boy, who is currently glowering at the floor, “would care to pull his head out of his flat, snobby ass and enlighten us…” He makes a swooping hand gesture that you interpret as, _Go on_.

Sighing, Eridan rakes a hand through his hair. Sounding weary, he asks, “How far do you want me to go back?”

He starts with the day Kankri died, and the conversation he had with his father about not wanting to make martyrs. After covering the “surveillance” he was supposed to be doing in the Furthest Ring and the staged shootings that were beginning to take place—though he left out that he was the one to kill Wayland—he finally gets to the rifle that he left at the Captors’ apartment. “I knew that all Angel weapons had tracking devices, and I remembered from early on in my training that they could be disabled. Now that I think about it, it was fucking stupid of me to leave that rifle with you, even if I did manage to turn off the tracking. None of you have a weapons permit and now they have a real, concrete reason to bring you in, since you’ve mostly been staying out of all the hubbub—”

“Eridan, take a deep breath,” Porrim says, voice hard and unsympathetic, “and tell us straight up. Stop talking in circles.”

She effectively cuts off his nervous rambling for a few seconds. After a piss-poor attempt to steady himself, Eridan says, “When I ‘deactivated’ the tracker, what I think really happened is it sent out a ping that alerted the Angels that one of their own decided to turn off tracking on one of their weapons. I’ve been thinking about it ever since my dad messaged me this morning—why the _hell_ would an Angel be able to disable something like that? It’s like it was an assist to go rogue. Maybe it _was_ a real thing before Scratch deserted, but they wouldn’t have left in something that could make dangerous weapons go missing.”

“Then why did you fall for it?” Kanaya breaks in, lip curling.

Looking embarrassed and guilty, Eridan looks back down at his hands, his pointer fingers pressing against each other anxiously. “Because I… I w-was…”

“Get on with it, any time before we’re fucking dead would be nice,” Mituna snaps.

“Because I was thinking like a naïve _child_ , all right?” Eridan bursts, staring the older man down. “You know how old I was when I was taught about gun tracking? _Twelve_. I know it’s dumb of me to intrinsically believe things that they told me when I was a kid, but since I _remembered_ being told this by someone I trusted and looked up to, I thought his word would be good! I was a fucking idiot! Is that what you fucking want to hear, Captor?!”

He pushes off the wall at takes a few steps forward. You don’t know if he’s going to hit Mituna or burst into tears. You don’t risk the former, lurching to grab his elbow. “Eridan—”

Seeing as he doesn’t try to yank out of your grip, he wasn’t going to punch anybody. He acts like you’re not even there, continuing, “I fucked up! I’ll admit it! But if they didn’t use _this_ as an excuse to come for you, it would have been something else.”

Porrim breaks in, “We haven’t even done anything since Kankri died! Why would they think we’re a threat?”

“Kankri was killed five days ago,” Eridan says, sounding detached, like he tried to pull blankface on his voice because he felt like he was getting too emotional. “It hasn’t even been a _week_ , Por. You don’t think they were watching your every move _before_ this? They know who the powerful people are down here, and even though you’ve been in hiding and grieving, the things you’ve been doing for fucking _years_ will not go away. All of you, look me in the eye and tell me that if Porrim went out there and tried to gain some control of the protests, people wouldn’t fucking flock to her. They know who she is and what she’s lost and that means she holds a lot of fucking influence and leverage. Rufioh’s a big threat because _what_ he’s doing. Porrim’s an even bigger threat, because she’s untested out there and, by their measures, she’s even _more_ popular, since Kankri held most of the sway and she was his second.”

“We can’t hide in Derse forever,” Porrim says, crossing her arms over her chest. “If things are as serious as you say, they’ll find us, even if we start moving around in earnest. Sollux, how long will everything be jammed from Calliope?”

“They’ll probably prioritize the cameras, so we probably have about a week there, as long as they still have someone proficient with them.” Sollux looks to Eridan for confirmation, and he nods once. “The network will be down even longer, so think three or four weeks before chat’s back online.”

Voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, Mituna asks, “What if they get Dad to work on it?”

Sighing harshly, Sollux pushes his glasses into his hair and massages his temples. “Then we have three days tops.”

Raising your eyebrows, you question, “For just the cameras?”

“No, for everything. If he…” Mituna and Sollux stare at each other for a moment, the older brother’s lips pursed disapprovingly. Sollux continues, “Calliope was the project Dad got arrested for working on. I had to start from scratch, but if he did retain those sorts of memories, he’ll be able to flush it out and get everything up and running again easily.”

“That’s if my mother decides to lend him to the Angels,” you interject, before you realize it’s super insensitive to refer to someone’s father as something that can be loaned out. “Which she might not, it depends if she and Eridan’s dad are in or out.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?” Karkat asks.

Shrugging, you say, “One day, Glenda and Seymour are best buddies. Others, she wants to rip his throat out.”

“You’d think she’d do anything she needs to so she can stay in power,” Eridan observes.

“I know,” you say. “But we can’t be one-hundred percent sure.”

You’ve been stewing on an idea ever since you started on your walk down here, and you decide to bring it up now. Turning to Kanaya, you ask her, “When was the last time you talked to Rose?”

Frowning slightly, she replies, “The day after Kankri died.”

“And she still has the cue ball?”

“I assume so.” Seeming to realize where you’re going with this, Kanaya asks, “Do you think she can still speak with Jade?”

“If she’s really outside of Canaveral, probably,” you say, voice firm. “It depends on how the cue ball works, and since we don’t _know_ that, we’d have to test it. Eridan,” you turn to him, “is it worth it to risk a trip to the Burbs? Just us.”

Shaking his head, Eridan replies, “Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t. There’s no way the elevators are still operational.”

“Are you sure?” Mituna asks condescendingly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Eridan says. You can see him fighting off a disgusted lip curl. “I know protocol, alright? The second Lord English went down, they would’ve either delegated lower Angels to close off the elevators or left it to the police.”

“The police,” Porrim echoes. There’s a beat of silence, before she exclaims, “Fuck, Latula was coming down! I was supposed to meet her and go talk to Rufioh at about the same time Calliope crashed everything. All of _this_ started happening and I forgot.” Turning to Mituna, she says, “She would’ve gone to the BHG when we didn’t show, right?”

“I guess,” Mituna says, quirking an eyebrow. He’s much less hostile with her than he was with Eridan, the tension leaking from his shoulders as he forces back his irritation.

“Which is right by where the police station set up shop after the whole justice building thing,” Kanaya adds. You can feel a plan starting to form, but you’re not sure you can condone it. All of this sounds too dangerous to get into right now, seeing as the Angels are undoubtedly still on the prowl.

Before the conversation can go any further, Aradia nudges the door open with her hip, arms full of plastic bags containing food. It’s not the freeze-dried rations people were lining up by the hundreds for in the garage—it’s bread and cheese and even synthetic meat, practically spilling over. Grinning despite shadows you see in her eyes, she says, “Damara saved us some of the good stuff! Sollux, go grab plates out of the bathroom.”

“I’m fucking ravenous!” Karkat exclaims, sliding off the counter he was sitting on to help Aradia dig through the bags.

As you eat, the plan really begins to take shape. Aradia, Kanaya, and Karkat will stay at Derse, talking to people and seeing what news they can get, seeing as word can only travel by mouth at this point. The rest of you will go to the BHG and see if you can track down Latula. Eridan protests throughout the decision-making process, saying that the Angels have already discovered their empty apartments and they’ll be combing the Furthest Ring for them, but Aradia points out that Derse will be one of the next places to look, after the junkyard turns out to be a bust. It’s as safe as anywhere else right now.

“We can’t let this chance of meeting with Latula go,” Porrim says to him as everyone else is lost in their own conversations and sandwiches. “She’s our last connection to the Burbs, to Rose. If we want to get out of this, we _need_ her.”

“Plus,” you add, “she’s pretty good at convincing people to do what she wants. If anyone could talk us into an elevator, it’d be her.”

You set out soon after that. You can tell Eridan is still tired from the walk over, but he hardly wants to look you in the eye, so you know he’s determined not to let his weakness show. The Bounty Hunters’ Guild is about two miles north, closer than the apartment, and Eridan knows the location better than anyone so he’s able to lead you on back streets and paths with more cover. About halfway there, as everyone else seems to be lost in their own murmured conversations, you lean close to Eridan, saying softly, “You seem really tense.”

His teeth tear at his lip for a moment before he says, “I can’t figure out if I’m actually seeing flashes of distortion in the corner of my eye or if I’m just being paranoid. Have you seen anything?”

You shake your head, your short hair bobbing around your chin. “I would’ve said something if I did.”

“Well I’m not really sure if I am, alright?” he huffs, looking back up. “The computer glasses only help so much. It’s my perception that’s really—”

Eridan stops, mouth snapping shut as he grabs your wrist and yanks you back. He’s grabbed Porrim on his other side, and you use your reach to bat at what you can reach as Eridan pulls you away, which is Sollux’s hip. “Hey!” Eridan snaps quietly, and those who were walking a little bit ahead turn back just in time to see Eridan dragging the pair of you across the street. The dash to a storefront with the door hanging open is a short one, but it feels like an eternity as your heart beats in your ears.

“Away from the windows, come on,” he whispers harshly, storming past you and waving you into a back room. This must’ve been a restaurant, but now the tables and chairs are overturned, shattered glass littering the ground and no food in sight. The room Eridan brought you to is a kitchen, which has been openly ransacked, cabinets hanging open and the hot, sharp scent of a stove left on too long permeating the room. “Just saw an Angel, definitely. She was at the end of the block and I think she was turned away from us but we needed to get out of the open. I fuckin’ _told_ you it was too soon—”

“Are you sure?” Mituna questions, his tone lacking any of the condescension from earlier.

Eridan falters for a moment, glancing to you because he was just talking to you about his uncertainty. He uneasily says, “Yeah.” There’s a moment of silence as the implications start to sink in, but Eridan breaks it by snapping, “Duck!”

There’s a long counter housing a flattop stove, and all five of you fit behind it. Eridan hunches for a moment, taking the rifle off his back, before peeking over the top and through the door you came from, which is still cracked open. “Someone walked by. Don’t think they’re checking in here. I have an idea, but let’s wait a minute.”

After listening to yourself breathe for a while, Eridan leads you back into the freezer, which isn’t too much colder than the rest of the air since the thick metal door has been left hanging open. Coming to the back corner, Eridan explains, “Any buildings bordering the Belt have a system connecting them to the sewer for dumping. It’s how you guys got people out when Rufioh blew up the fuckin’ justice building, remember? I know a lot of the buildings that have connections, and this is one of them.”

There’s a hatch in the ground under some empty cardboard boxes, and with your help, he’s able to pry it open. The hinges creak loudly and the entire group flinches at once, watching the freezer door that’s just barely open. (You didn’t close it all the way because you didn’t want to accidentally lock yourselves in here.) It’s dark below, a staircase leading downwards into the dark. “Anyone got a flashlight?” Eridan asks.

Mituna digs out his tablet and turns the brightness all the way up. It’ll have to do.

The staircase doesn’t go that far into the ground, just enough to be under the street. There are lights in the main tunnel and enough room to breathe—even if it smells like sulfur and ammonia—but they’re dim so Mituna keeps his tablet out. The walls are gray and creeping with mold, which is the only green you’re used to seeing in the Furthest Ring. You’re standing on a ledge that runs on either side of the lane, and the middle slopes down into grates in the middle, where stagnant water lies between each one. There are semicircles at the bottom of the walls every so often that you assume vent to the surface; they’re only a few feet wide and half as tall. Once you’re all on solid concrete, you ask Eridan, “Which way?”

He starts to the right, and you can sort of figure out where you are in your head. You think your route runs under the buildings rather than the street, but you’re heading basically in the same direction. “I learned about this passage in training, it’ll take us under all the buildings on the block so we can come out—”

“ _Training_?!” Sollux yells, halting in his tracks. His voice echoes down the tunnel. You whirl towards him as it dawns on you, too. “You mean fucking _Angel training?!”_ Eridan’s mouth pops open like he’s going to reply, but nothing comes out as his entire expression widens in horror. “Oh you mind-rotted fucking _douche_ —”

Sollux hits the ground, half-off the walkway so he rolls down towards the sewer grates as Mituna lunges for him. You take a step forward too, praying that he’d just tripped as your perception warps near the staircase behind him, but then Eridan is blocking your view, rifle raised in one hand while his other in his pocket. He lines up a shot with nothing and fires a few times, the sound of the gun pounding in your head. “ _Sollux_!” Porrim shrieks.

Eridan curses loudly and throws the gun down. He’s run out of ammunition. His hand is still in his pocket—on his _silencer_ —and you think _of course_ , he’d save his own skin any day, and you’re bitter that he’s just going to run and leave all of you here but somehow you’re also _relieved_ , because he’ll get away. Sure, the other Angels will be able to get a good read on his position but he knows these paths, he’s said so: he’ll run away and go back to Derse and come up with a better plan while the rest of you rot.

His hand moves quickly and you’re sure he’s going to pass you by, but then he’s pressing the silencer into _your_ hand, shoving you back hard enough that you stumble as he begs, “ _Go_!” before he’s hit with a stun, tumbling forward and hitting the concrete hard. He doesn’t roll down the pitch like Sollux.

The silencer is on by the time it is in your hand, and you stare dumbly at it for a moment before a stun flies too close to you and you take some uncoordinated steps back. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, your eyes frantically rove the area, trying to figure out what the hell to _do_.

Porrim lands on her hands and knees next to Eridan, struggling to stay up after he hit the ground with finality. As chaos descends around you, a noiseless bystander, you think you only have another second to make up your mind before an Angel gets a clear shot at you.

There’s no way out of this, even if you did manage to get to Eridan or Porrim. People will be taken today, one way or another. You want to do something, you want to _act_ (you see the terror on Eridan’s face and that stirs up something old within you, a protection instinct that you first felt many years ago when the cruelest things where mean-spirited children), but you steel yourself. Eridan could have escaped, but he chose to give the silencer to you instead, even though he could’ve been too slow and _no one_ would’ve been able to use it. You can’t negate that choice by being captured with him.

You run without glancing back, even though you desperately want to. (You don’t want to see someone kick Porrim as she struggles to get up, fighting the stun better than anyone you ever had seen before. You don’t want to hear Eridan pleading _, “Don’t be so rough, we’re cooperating, we’re cooperating,”_ speech slurred by the effects of the shock. You can’t witness Mituna watching Angels tie Sollux’s hands with bleak resolve, thinking about hiding in a closet as their apartment was ransacked and their parents taken.) Any close exit would certainly be guarded and they have to have some sense of you streaking by, but you have no idea how many Angels there are—they’re all silenced too. To your relief, they can’t hear your footsteps.

Finding a vent that seems relatively clean, you drop, sliding down onto your belly. Looking around anxiously, you can’t tell if there are any Angels around you; panic won’t let you focus. Some Angels have revealed themselves, grouping around their prisoners, but you know there have to be more, still searching the passage for you. Biting your lip hard, you slide feet-first into the semicircular opening, hoping desperately that Eridan’s silencer holds. The area near your feet begins to slope upwards, but somehow, you just manage to squeeze into the vent.

Keeping your head tucked down, you squeeze your eyes shut, listening hard. You can hear the occasional rustle as the Angels gather up your friends and issue commands, but you can’t make out the words. They’re too distorted by distance and echoes. You stay there for what feels like hours but you know is only minutes, breathing in mildew and gunk and wondering how long the battery on a silencer lasts. When it’s been silent for a while, you can’t wait any longer, dragging yourself back out into the open.

Looking back and forth down the lane, you find the tunnel empty. Gulping in air, you force down any remaining panic and start forward, heading the direction Eridan was initially taking you. You might as well see this out; Latula may even be able to help.

Severely, you think it’s futile. The Angels have them now. 

 

* * *

 

Seeing sunlight again hurts your eyes, but you’ll never take the scent of clean air for granted. On your way you’d seen flickers, holes where there might’ve been Angels, but you never knew if they saw you so you’d freeze until they seemed to pass you by. It’s much easier to hide with a silencer standing still than walking, so it rendered you completely invisible, even to a highly-trained eye (you hope), unless they’d seen you when you were still moving. It helps that they probably had the highest level Angels take in your friends; if there are others snooping around for you, they’ll be those with lower GMS levels, ones that don’t have senses heightened enough to see into your little bubble. The walk to the BHG is the longest in your life, though still shorter than your perilous wait in the vent, your feet dragging with the weight of Eridan’s choice on your shoulders, and when you finally reach it, there are more people inside than you’re expecting.

Latula Pyrope spins around to stare at you when you open the door, a little bell ringing as you enter. You let it fall closed behind you as you flick off your silencer and take in the room: it’s small and outfitted with two chairs near the front door and three doors in the back, each labelled with A, B, and C. Vaguely, you remember Eridan saying that there were three different collector rooms, just off the reception area. There’s a desk where an administrator normally clicks away at a computer, but right now, Vriska and Terezi are perched on the surface.

“What are _you_ doing here, Peixes?” Vriska questions.

“Looking for Latula and Rufioh, of course,” you answer, irritation building. You don’t like being interrogated when you’re in this sort of mood.

“That makes four of us, then,” Latula snorts, “except we’re trying to get to Horuss, too. Goddammit, what’s the time?”

It seems you’re the only one currently facing the clock on the back wall. “Half past three.”

Latula huffs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago!” She seems to realize something suddenly, her gaze snapping back to you. “Oh my God, you were supposed to be with Porrim, where _are_ they?”

She reads the devastation on your face before you even get the change to say, “The Angels, they—”

“Fuck!” Latula yells, spinning around and kicking the desk, hands fisting in her hair.

“Hey, watch it!” Vriska snaps, moving her legs out of the way of Latula’s shoe. Terezi appears concerned for her sister, but keeps quiet.

“Fuck! _Fuck_! FU—!”

The bell over the door _dings_ behind you. Turning, you find Horuss, his face sheened with sweat and anxiousness. “I apologize for my tardiness,” he says lamely.

While everyone else deems it appropriate to just stare at him as he slowly closes the door, you say, “Hi,” awkwardly.

“Who? When?” Latula says shortly, ignoring the newcomer.

“Porrim, Eridan, Mituna, and Sollux. Almost an hour ago, probably. I’ve been having a hard time keeping track of each minute, but I… I guess that’s what hiding does, you know?”

The silence hangs over you like oppressive humidity. Horuss must clear his throat ten times by the time Latula finally waves a hand to shush him, her foot tapping the ground erratically. You find the sudden quiet uncomfortable so you slip across the room to stand next to Terezi. You lean close to her ear, murmuring, “What now?”

“Let her think!” Terezi says was a grin, but her expression remains uneasy.

Horuss continues clearing his throat and shuffling his feet with waning frequency until Latula’s posture finally straightens up, arms out, pointing almost viciously at you and Horuss. “You and you! Come with me. We’re going to go down to the police station and convince _your_ dad,” she jabs her finger at Horuss, who’s looking increasingly sallow, “to help us set our friends free. Get hype, alright? Hype is confidence! Woo! Feferi, I want you to _woo_ with me, okay? _Woo_!”

“ _Woo_!” you mirror, trying to sound excited and not terribly confused or panicked.

You hear Terezi say to Vriska, “This is how she gets into Lawyer Mode.”

Latula holds up both of her hands in a placating motion. “You, me, and Horuss, we’re going to do this, okay?” When she doesn’t put her hands down, you realize she wants you to high-five her, so you do, albeit hesitantly. “Aww, come on, don’t be a pussy. _Woo_!”

You slap her hands harder, and she puts them back at her sides, satisfied. “You gals stay here,” Latula says, “and catch.” She fishes a tablet out of her pocket and tosses it to Vriska. “You need help, you tell Damara, alright?”

Vriska’s face screws up. “Are you kidding? She’d fucking _gut_ me!”

“Being leader of the Felt has changed her,” Latula says certainly, then turns to take your arm and drags you a few feet to grab Horuss’ too. “Ready, champ?”

“Oh, gosh,” Horuss says.

The police station isn’t far from the BHG—they relocated after the whole justice building fiasco, and it seems the Zahhaks wanted to be closer to the Pyropes’ collection of bounty hunters and their guns. “You’ve gotta tell the guys up front we need to see your dad,” Latula says to Horuss.

“They still won’t let us back,” he says shakily.

“That’s because you lack confidence! Say what you really feel and there’s no way they’ll say no. You’re Horuss freakin’ Zahhak! You’re the size of a bulldozer and you could bench press the police’s entire artillery. Now, we’re going to march right in there, and you’re going to _fight for our friends_!”

Horuss blinks hard, struggling to keep up with Latula’s fast walk even though his legs are longer than both of yours. He seems to slink back into himself then pop out, questioning, “Where’s Rufioh?”

“We don’t fucking _know_!” Latula says. “He hasn’t been seen since the riots this morning. They probably have him, too, if the Angels were out collecting people.”

There’s no basis for that claim, really, but it’s what makes Horuss set his shoulders, determined. The three of you march into the police station and Horuss booms, “I demand to see my father.”

The secretary practically leaps out of her seat. “Right away, Mr. Zahhak.”

You don’t wait for long. Hardly half a minute passes before the woman is back, ushering you forward. She leads you down a brightly-lit hallway and turns a sharp corner, coming to an office with a wider door than the others and a box mounted to the wall that’s overflowing with paperwork. She opens the door and stands aside to let you in, then leaves the room quickly.

Chiron Zahhak is imposing, even sitting down. His shoulders sit well above the back of his tall leather chair, his forearms resting comfortably on the dark metal of his computer desk as his hands fold in front of him. He’s wearing sunglasses indoors, which you think is weird until you notices the lights dancing across the lenses. They must be some kind of computer glasses.

The office itself is impeccable, not a speck of dust or stray paper in sight, which is a contrast to the overflowing letterbox just outside his door. There are two folding chairs stationed on your side of the desk, but none of you move to sit.

Captain Zahhak speaks first. “Miss Peixes. Horuss. Miss Pyrope. What can I do for you?”

Latula struts forward, putting her hands on the lip of Zahhak’s desk and leaning forward. “Do you have any idea what just occurred?”

Zahhak glances down at his computer screen, integrated into the surface of his desk like the one in your mother’s office, then back at Latula. “I did approve a number of arrest warrants for the Angels this morning.” He glances up, and even though his glasses obscure his eyes, you can tell he’s looking at you. “One of them was for you, Miss Peixes. There were a hefty list of charges to your name.”

“I take it my mother didn’t even attempt to block it?” you say shortly.

His pursed lips are answer enough, but he still shakes his head.

“Are they just being brought in for questioning?” Latula demands. “They haven’t committed any crimes—” Chiron opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but then shuts it, “—so how can the Angels hold them?”

Sounding almost petulant, he says, “The Angels will do whatever they wish, with or without my approval. There’s just much less paperwork involved if I agree to their terms.”

“You don’t always have to be on their side,” Latula says. “The Angels have been on a fucking power trip ever since they brought down Gemina Captor centuries ago, and no one has really tried to put them in check since. Why can’t the person that finally knocks them down be you? Don’t you want to be on the right side of all of this? Hell, even your _children_ know better—”

“Horuss and Equius are exemplary young men,” Officer Zahhak breaks in, “and I would prefer that they be left out of this mess.” Horuss makes no move to stand up for himself, looking demurely at the ground. “Now, if Lord English showed the Angels something important, then I cannot stop them from taking action.”

“Technology fails,” you break in.

All eyes in the room fall to you. “What was that?” Chiron asks.

“Technology fails,” you repeat. “That’s what you told me months ago, Officer Zahhak, when I was requesting immediate medical assistance for my best friend. Do you remember?”

He seems slightly flustered, but his voice is even when he says, “I believe there was a ‘sometimes’ involved in that sentiment.”

“Lord English isn’t always right,” you say. “It can be manipulated and its sight can be used for bad things. And now, Lord English is _dead_. The system is down and the Angels are panicking, so if you don’t think they’re going to take as much control of this city as they can—while taking that control _away from you_ —you’re an idiot.”

“I believe I’m smart enough to know which force to put my faith into, Miss Peixes.”

Horuss finally speaks up. “Father, _please_ —”

Chiron silences with a slight tilt of his chin, pursing his lips.

Latula says adamantly, “You should at least be helping the bucks that are trapped here. My sister is stuck in our outpost down here—”

“Oh, that silly ‘Bounty Hunters’ Guild’?” Captain Zahhak says, the barest bit of sarcasm present in his tone. “Thank you for reminding me of it. We will need to raid it; Rufioh Nitram is employed there, is he not?” The silence answers his question, but for some reason, you think he’s bluffing. “You may be able to make a case for the rest of your people, Miss Pyrope, but various accounts of looting and property damage, as well as clearly inciting rebellion, cannot be overlooked.”

Latula growls, shoving her sunglasses onto her forehead and leaning over Zahhak’s desk. “So you won’t help us _or_ them? Then what the hell are you here for?!”

“To be an unhelpful jerk, it seems like,” you say, frowning.

Releasing a sigh, Captain Zahhak says, “Horuss, show them out.”

You and Latula both turn to Horuss, who looks like a crook who just got caught in a flashlight beam. There’s a shift in his demeanor as he presses his lips together hard, fists clenching at his sides, and simply says, “No.”

Officer Zahhak stands, knees creaking and heels of his hands digging into his desk to support himself. Latula removes herself from his desk, taking a step back. Chiron leans over as Horuss holds his father’s gaze, firm. “What did you say?”

Horuss swallows. “You need to help them.”

Lips thinning, Officer Zahhak says, “Please tell me this isn’t about—”

“I’m in love with Rufioh and you want to _arrest_ him!”

You and Latula exchange incredulous glances.

Captain Zahhak sinks back into his chair. He sounds tired. “You are infatuated and our interest in him has nothing to do with your crush—”

“ _We’re in love_ and all he wants to do is _help_ people—”

“He’s inciting riots—”

“He’s trying to make _change_ —”

“Right now he’s cowering in a corner, hiding cravenly while his allies are taken—”

“There isn’t a cowardly bone in his body! Rufioh Nitram is going to _win_ this, and I will be by his side when he does!”

Latula mouths, _Wow_ , to you.

“Horuss, that is _enough_!” Captain Zahhak exclaims, his booming voice finally raised above a murmur. His son is silenced, falling back to meekness. “Ladies, I believe you can see yourselves out.”

“Fuck you,” Latula mutters under her breath, glancing at you before turning on her heel and stalking to the door. She throws it open and heads into the hall.

You hang back a moment, facing towards the exit but still in the office. Turning back to Officer Zahhak, you open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it. “You have no idea,” he says, voice dripping with some heavy quality that rings with age, “how hard I have worked to bring some sort of honor back into this family. I will not have it thrown away for some petty insurgents.”

Swallowing any hope you might’ve harbored, you follow Latula out.

She brings you back to the BHG. Vriska and Terezi are gone when you come inside, a note left on the receptionist’s desk simply reading, “Derse.”

“Now?” Latula sighs, tossing her sunglasses onto the desk and heaving herself onto it. She crumples the note in her fist and throws it away, running a hand back through her hair. “Of all times? Ugh. At least they left the tablet.”

You lean against the desk next to her, looking over at the tablet. “What’s the deal with it? Were you able to use it for messaging, even though the network is down?”

“The Felt has their own,” Latula says with a smirk, running a finger across the screen before putting it on the desk. “One of Damara’s henchmen showed up earlier to hand this off to me. Guess it helps to be friends with the rad leaderly types, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I… I think I’m going to head to Derse, too. Karkat and Kanaya should still be there. I need to tell them.”

“Oh wow, that won’t be fun. Be careful.” Just as you’re about to go, Latula sighs, sliding off the desk. “Feferi,” she says, firmly placing both of her hands on your shoulders, “I don’t care what Zahhak says. If you or Kanaya or _anyone_ needs help, you come _straight back here_ , okay? We don’t have much comfort at the BHG, but it’s a place to lay low, at least until the elevators are back up.”

Swallowing, you genuinely say, “Thank you, Latula. I’ll tell them.”

You only find the energy to go to the bus stop when you start thinking about Kanaya and Karkat. You are not the sort of person who likes to be alone, especially under stress, so you turn on Eridan’s silencer and slip out of the BHG, taking to the empty street.

You wonder if anyone at Derse has heard that the majority Kankri Vantas’ inner circle has been apprehended. Karkat and Kanaya have to be distraught, even if the news hasn’t reached the market yet. There’s no way for you to contact them so you just hope. The Derse bus stop closest to you is three blocks east and you stand there long enough for you to wonder if they’ve finally shut the public transportation system down, but eventually a bus comes, to the apparent relief of the woman you’re standing behind.

Though she doesn’t know you got on the bus behind her, the machine does, since it felt the additional weight and its distribution. You’d dug your wallet out of your small backpack and had your pass at the ready. The woman in front of you looks back at the additional beep, squinting, but she either doesn’t know enough about Angels to see through the silencer or her senses aren’t heightened enough to do so.

You take a seat near the back, tucking yourself tightly against the window. Carefully, you remove the silencer from your pocket, seeing that the battery light is still green. You wonder if holding it messes with the field at all, but you can hardly bring yourself to care as the last few hours come crashing down onto you. Eridan made a mistake— _two_ mistakes, and it got them all captured. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to be mad at him. While part of you is furious that he kept thinking like an Angel until it was too late, you mostly just want to know if they’re all okay. It makes your stomach clench and eyes water to think about what might be happening to Eridan; they do not treat traitors well in the Angels. Goddammit, he should’ve just taken the silencer and ran with it, like you thought he was doing. You feel like you could take anything right now. You’ve always been confident and unflappable in the face of doom, and you would’ve given the Angels a fight, that’s for sure. Though you’re terribly worried about _all_ of your friends, you wish that Eridan was sitting next to you on the bus, a vaguely petulant look on his face and arms crossed over his chest. You’d even listen to him whine about Vriska if it meant he was sitting here next to you, not captured and possibly killed.

Once again, the gravity of his choice hits you. He knew better than anyone what the Angels do to deserters. And yet he still chose _you_.

Turning the silencer around and around in between your fingers, _you_ make a choice. You may not know what being _in_ love feels like, but you definitely know what love is. Love is companionship. It is making sure they have enough ice to ease the pain in their joints and it’s moving back into a rundown apartment to make sure the other is safe. Love is touch: it’s an arm around a waist and fingers linking with fingers and legs tangled together in bed. It’s a stubborn compromise, where you fight but it’s always okay in the end because you care enough to resolve the issue instead of letting it destroy you.

Love is bringing someone away from a toxic situation in hopes they’ll have a better life.

Love is being selfish to your core but still finding someone who you’re willing to lose your freedom for.

So you may not still be completely sure that you’re in the sort of love that consumes Eridan. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and his intensity is capable of scaring you—sometimes, it feels like Eridan loves you more than the sum of all your love for anything, and that’s a reason why it’s taken you so long to come up with an answer for him. He loves differently from you, deeper, more desperate. You wonder if the Initiative he betrayed will beat that love out of him. It can only help the hate that’s in his heart, because if there’s one thing you know about Eridan, it’s that he hates just as passionately as he loves.

The silencer is shaking in your hands, and at first you think that maybe it reacts to the sort of pulse frequency that blows up Pulsar model guns, but then you realize it’s just your hands trembling. Swallowing tears, your grip tightens around the small black oval, thinking about choices.

It was Eridan’s choice to save you rather than himself.

Now it will be yours to love him. 

* * *

 

Aradia’s tablet buzzes with texts. _Bzz. Bzz. Bzzzzzzzt._ She knows they’re from her sister; all of the networks in the city have been downed by Sollux’s mischievous program, but Scratch made sure the Felt had their own because he knew that one day they would need it. He was too shrewd to rely on something he knew to be both visible and fallible, so he’d made sure he could keep in touch with his colleagues through absolutely anything.

 _Yo chickenshit_ , Aradia can hear her sister snapping, _pick up_. It had to be important, but since Aradia had read her first message and had all of her fears confirmed, she couldn’t waste any time.

She’d only figured it all out in the last couple of hours, when people continued to flock to Derse and news trickled in. The cogs in her head had started turning and hadn’t stopped, and once she’d convinced Karkat and Kanaya it wasn’t safe at Derse anymore—because it _wasn’t_ , once it had all clicked into place Aradia had realized that it was already over—she’d planned.

Aradia imagines confronting her sister. Her alliances had been changing and shifting all throughout their lives, even though until recently Aradia had thought Damara was just a servant, devoted to one heinous man who she’d shot dead in his own bed. Aradia had always known people underestimated her sister, but she didn’t count herself as one of those until she saw the blood on her hands.

When Damara told her, _“I’m the leader of the Felt now. You and Mother will never have to worry again,”_ Aradia took it at face-value. She was proud of her sister, plain and simple. Aradia knew she had it in her, but a small part of her was wary, too. Damara could be wild, unpredictable. When she started trying to do good things, providing protection during rioting and food to those who just wanted it all to end, Aradia was happy Damara was being charitable, even if it was strange for a gang leader to do so.

It turns out Aradia hadn’t underestimated Damara. She’d _over_ estimated her.

“I told you to come alone,” Aradia says, frowning slightly.

Vriska blows her bangs out of her eyes and strides inside, Terezi just behind her. Aradia thinks Terezi is tired. Wrangling Vriska would tucker anyone out, but at first she’d thought it was just Vriska who’d stagnated in the four years since she’d tried to kill Aradia and Sollux, staying true to her juvenile attitude. However, now Aradia believes Terezi hasn’t changed much either, too stuck in past guilt and afraid of sticking her cane too far into people’s business, even as nosy as she was. Aradia is sure it’ll all go to hell, just like last time.

“Yeah, well did you ever consider that I don’t _trust_ you enough to come alone?” Vriska huffs, throwing herself into the barstool across from Aradia, who is leaning against the opposite side of the counter, next to the cash register. Terezi hangs back a few steps, but keeps close enough to intervene if things start to go south. While Terezi may be drained, she’s not dumb enough to think this was a good idea, nor does she think it’ll end without someone making a move. “I’m surprised that you’re aloooooooone. What, all of your friends in prison?” Vriska barks a laugh.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Aradia says simply, perching her chin in her hands. _Bzzzzzzzt_! “I just wanted you to know that you’re going to finally get what you deserve.”

Even though it’s stated calmly, Vriska jerks out of her seat, taking a few steps back so she’s standing with Terezi. “Jesus Christ, you’re cutting right to the chase, aren’t you?”

“Aradia,” Terezi says in a warning tone. The _shink_ of her blade coming out of the tip of her cane sounds almost sad to Aradia. She feels bad for Terezi. She didn’t deserve any of this, which is why Aradia had specifically told Vriska to come _alone_ , but even if she tried to get them out now, it was going to be too late.

Taking a deep breath, Aradia does what she has to. “I want you to say that you’re sorry,” she says, moving towards Vriska and stopping a few feet away as Terezi’s grip on her cane tightens. There’s a tremor in her tone and enough anger in her words that she sounds sincere. “The world is falling to shit right now, you know? And you never apologized to me for making it worse than it had to be. You never apologized to me for _all of this_.” She runs her mechanical hand down her side and slaps her metal thigh, then brings her hand up to brush her hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear, revealing her bionic eye. She takes another step forward. “I know you apologized to Tavros, and while I don’t think it was enough, it’s _his_ job to make peace with you, even if I want you to never touch him again. But what repentance have I gotten? What _justice_?” She takes another step.

Vriska turns to look at Terezi, completely at a loss for once. Terezi feels her gaze and gives a very slight nod. Turning back to a trembling Aradia, Vriska says, “Stop treating me like a villain, okay? You and Tavros and Sollux and all of you are too fucking busy victimizing yourselves that you don’t think about _me_ and _my_ feelings. It’s really fucking selfish. I’m alive, too.”

Terezi sighs. “That’s not how you said you’d—”

“I don’t care!” Vriska snaps. “It’s what I really want to say! Don’t you like that, Terezi? I’m being _honest_.”

“You get treated like you’re a villain because you _are_ one!” Aradia says unwaveringly. “Redemption is for people trying to do better, not for people who—who—who do _this_!”

Unflinchingly, Aradia digs her fingers into her eye socket, her fleshy digits closing around her fake eye and yanking. “ _Fuck_!” Vriska shrieks involuntarily. Terezi raises her cane, smelling the blood but not the source.

Her eye comes loose with stray sparks and stripped wires and bloody tears, but Aradia holds the object in her hand triumphantly, grinning.

“ _You’re_ the fucking psychopath!” Vriska yells. This is the closest Aradia has ever seen her to terrified, and she revels in it. She wonders if this is what her sister feels like all the time, but that thought makes her feel sick and she shoos it away. “Why the fuck—why would you—?”

Tilting her head to the side owlishly, Aradia says, “Nothing matters from here on out. It’s over. Ta!”

Aradia darts forward, grabbing Vriska’s metal wrist in her own mechanical grip and slamming it against the wall. She feels Terezi’s knife-blade cane press against her throat almost immediately, hesitant, but Aradia doesn’t pause. She shoves her bionic orb into Vriska’s eye socket as hard as she possibly can; she feels when Vriska’s eye ruptures and when the other girl’s free arm claws at Aradia’s, her nails leaving trails of blood down Aradia’s wrist but why should she care? She’d feel bad if her loved ones knew what she’d done, but they’d never hear the story. Aradia embraces the violence.

Make her pay. _Make her pay!_

_By your hands! By your will! Sollux is gone and Damara’s a traitor but you’re free! Everything is going to be okay. For the first time, you’re in control, and your tablet has finally stopped its incessant buzzing because it’s too late—_

 

* * *

 

The ride to Derse is long. The woman you’d followed was the only person who got on alone; the rest come in packs of at least four, all trying to get to the haven that Derse has become. Though none of them notice you consciously, not one of them moves to sit in the seat you occupy. Laying your head against the window, you watch a helicopter go by, and you think of Officer Zahhak and his refusal to help. You wonder if Horuss would act on his own if something happened to Rufioh.

It feels like you’ve closed your eyes for a mere second when a muffled _boom_ rocks the bus, and you shoot to your feet. Multiple shrieks ring out, and people crowd around the windows on the other side of the bus, which continues to chug along on its predetermined route. “Stop!” a man shouts at the command console, but it does no such thing. “Stop!”

Unable to see over the other passengers, you head to the front of the bus, going to the windshield and looking out in the direction everyone is fixated on just as the bus halts at the furthest stop south it’ll go, a mile away from your destination.

You look at Derse in the distance just in time to see the top floors collapsing downward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there are only four more chapters after this, I'm losing the opportunity to whine at you for feedback. That said, I'd like to hear any thoughts you have about Insurgency!


	30. XXVII: Archive 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bill wurtz voice* Knock knock. It's an update.
> 
> (Just a note, since it's been a while: don't forget to highlight the beginning! Also, remember that I provide [chapter summaries](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/138961287004/the-story-so-far%22).)

While I respect Marceline Serket, let the record show that she can be hard to deal with. It has been nearly a decade since I first heard of her affair (he was a lowly level 3 bartender with a loud mouth) and the true parentage of her youngest daughter; it took me seven years to begin blackmailing her with it. I honestly do not believe she harbors any ill will towards me and my coercions. Planning revenge alone must get so _boring_ for women, and I think she was happy enough that I was able to get said daughter out of her hair for a while. The cue ball I sent the girl after will be difficult to find, and I hardly believe it is capable of what Furthest Ring rumors say, but my interest has been piqued and if the girl is dull enough not to realize she paralyzed her half-brother, I believe she can be kept out of the way rather easily. It is hard to plan properly with impulsive, obnoxious children running around under your nose.

When I first entered her home with a bargain on my mind, Marceline was an accommodating host, even if she did have a tendency to shoot off at the mouth. I knew that this was a woman with a ruthless reputation; even as children, when I knew her rather well, she’d had a callousness about her.

Nothing about Marceline was ever quiet. She always wanted to be the most noticeable thing in the room, brazen and prideful and vivacious, but she learned a thing or two from that low man who ended up dead in a gutter within a year of meeting her. Before, if she’d ever had an ounce of rebellion in her, it was to the social mores that told her it was bad to smile and laugh, even for the sake of chicanery. Now, she’d seen the viciousness of her peers and even if she still did agree with the science of the day, she dyed her hair black to set her apart from those who wanted to see her burn for daring to fuck a thump. As she served me tea that day, her hair was still long and black.

The first time we had a chat as adults, she was no longer the heiress to the intercity-state trading firm that made sure each city was awash with the products of others. Now, she ran that firm from the comfort of her own home, refusing to leave the ostentatious penthouse. To my understanding, she had the occasional gentleman caller, but besides for her direct underlings (including her children), no one was allowed in or out of the house.

The discussion was almost amiable—or at least, it was as amiable as it could’ve been as she had servants serve me tea while keeping one hand curled around the barrel of a shotgun. It didn’t take long for me to bring up her latest bedmate, and she snorted. I can still remember what she said: “I can’t believe you want to know how Seymour Ampora is in bed. If you’d wanted to fuck him, I would’ve thought you’d done it when you were still licking the Angels’ boots.”

Of course, I would never do anything so undignified, and I told her as such. This was not about sex. This was about pillowtalk. Turns out Seymour liked to brag about the Angel policies he was implementing, just like I’d thought. And so, an information exchange was set up: Marceline would tell me any Angelic information that came to her through a very particular grapevine, and I would keep Vriska entertained. Her mother did not want her around. Even though she’d been tweaked so much that her GMS level easily corresponded with her mother’s, Marceline said she still had her father’s bullheaded spirit.

 

* * *

 

About five years ago, a stranger was in Damara Megido’s apartment when she returned home.

She did not know this at the time, of course. To her, she was the only one present—her mother was a live-in maid in Scratch’s flashy manor, so she and Aradia lived by themselves, just a block away from Cascade. Damara did not know where her sister was when she returned that night, but she easily shrugged her absence off. She was most likely with Sollux or Tavros or her stupid buck friends.

Damara threw her bag down on the bed. She showered and put on a long, baggy t-shirt as someone silently moved through her kitchen, making themselves a cup of tea.

When Damara came out into the living room, her hair was wrapped in a towel and still damp from the shower. She saw a man dressed in all white waiting for her; immediately, she bolted back into her room, dashing to her dresser and rummaging around for a sharp carving knife she kept there. She’d just wretched open the drawer when a voice came from behind her. “I wish you no harm, Miss Megido. I’d only like to chat.”

She did not turn around; her hands curled around the bureau drawer, nails digging into the plastic. “I have nothing for you,” she said through her teeth, rage pounding into her bones. This was her little sister’s home and Damara did not want this _demon_ invading it. “I am too new. Scratch does not trust his whores, and I can’t risk losing that fucking money.”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the man said flatly. “We haven’t even made it through introductions. My name is Raphael Abraxas.”

Damara turned quickly, closing the drawer with her shoulder blades, the knife in her hand hidden behind her back. Lip curling, she snapped, “I already said, I can’t give you shit. Kill me or be on your way.”

Abraxas smiled a little, letting out a huff of air that might be a chuckle. “Why Miss Megido, killing you would waste your potential. We’ve been watching you for a while, and yes, that is because of your connection to Scratch. We have reason to believe we can form a mutually beneficial relationship—”

Hacking, Damara spit across the room, the glob landing square on the Angel’s shoe. “Fuck off.”

He pulled something out of his pocket. Using the defaced shoe, he nudged it across the beaten linoleum floor. Keeping her knife hidden, she bent down to pick up the tiny holstered pistol.

“We hate Scratch,” Abraxas said. “You hate Scratch. A day will come where you will want to make an arrangement with us; I think we have a good way of knowing when that day comes.”

By the time Damara had torn the gun from the holster and taken a shot (only to realize the gun was not loaded), the Angel was gone.

When Scratch and Kankri die in tandem, it is not Abraxas who returns, but another Angel comes all the same, asking, “Is it time?”

Damara begrudgingly agreed that it was.

 

* * *

 

“State your name and level for the record.”

Scowling at the bright light shining in your face, you decide not to be difficult. When you mouthed off earlier, you’d ended up with a boot to the face that made your right eye swell almost shut. “Eridan Ampora. Level 11.”

The camera in front of you flashes, making you flinch back even more. It’d caught you squinting, mouth partially open—not the best mugshot by any means. You wonder if there’s blood visibly in your teeth. You can certainly taste the tang of it on your tongue.

As soon as the photo is taken, one of the Angels guarding you grabs your arm, wrenching you to your feet. Your vision goes white hot with pain as your legs don’t take your weight, but they’ve been hauling you around like a ragdoll since they forcibly removed your braces and you doubt they’ll stop any time soon. You expect to be brought back to the cells—which are right by the area where your desk sits—but instead you’re returned to the waiting room, where only Porrim remains, staring at the floor.

So you’re the second one back from processing, then. If she’s here, everything must’ve gone through the network seamlessly. Porrim Maryam is a citizen of Canaveral, with no other affiliations, and she will be treated as such. You wonder if anyone had noticed that the only information about her was after she turned fifteen.

You swallow shakily as you’re deposited into a chair next to her. She doesn’t try to speak to you, which is good; they’d only hurt you for trying to talk. Once the Captors return, Sollux with a split lip (probably from having a sharp tongue), you continue waiting for something. As time ticks by, you get antsier, wondering where your father is and why you haven’t seen him. He was well aware of your arrest—he’d _threatened_ you for fuck’s sake—but he’s yet to appear. You just keep waiting for him to barge through the door in the center of the wall, full of frothing rage.

He never comes. Soon, a trainee no older than you appears, saying, “Two rooms have been cleared. They’ll have to double up.”

“Don’t separate the brothers,” the head officer commands as Angels manhandle you out of your seat. “Dr. Peixes is coming to look at them in a little while.”

The group of you only make it a few steps before Mituna lashes out, slamming his heel into the knee of the woman who’s escorting him. She hardly stumbles, immediately shoving his cheek into the wall and ripping a hand stunner from her belt. “That horrible bitch will never fucking touch us,” he snarls through his crooked teeth.

This was a bad time to fight back. All eyes are on you; there’s no way any Angel would’ve let even their _pinky_ off of him. Unlike Mituna, you know how long you’ll have to wait before you get a chance to break free. There’ll be plenty of time sitting around to think of a plan.

Last time you were in a holding cell, it had been the pharmacist from Derse who was being questioned. They’d done a makeshift interrogation in her lockup, not moving her into the official I&A labs because they knew they’d drag an answer out of her easily. You and Porrim are taken into that very room, which is now absent of all furniture, manacles freshly drilled into the wall. Both of you are chained up on opposite sides of the room, hands chest-level if you’re standing and above your head if you sit.

They leave you alone. You immediately slump to the floor, your legs unable to hold you up without your braces or the Angel’s grip. You hit the concrete hard, your shoulders yanked in their sockets as your hands are forced upward. When you let out an involuntary grunt of pain, Porrim doesn’t ask if you’re alright. She’s facing away from you and resting her head on the wall, hands curled near her chest. She hasn’t said a word since she was cuffed.

You inform her quietly, “They’ll hear every word we speak and see every move we make.”

Por’s posture doesn’t change, nor does she reply. After a few minutes of heavy silence (which you spend staring holes into her back), she begins muttering under her breath, eyes closed. You think she’s praying.

Minutes go by. You’re not sure how many, stuck in the monotony of your jail, but you can’t stand her quiet murmuring for long. It makes you feel like you’re doomed. “Por, I’m sorry.”

She pauses in her prayer, but doesn’t turn to face you or say anything. Swallowing shakily, you continue, “I know I fucked up, okay? I got you into this by being ridiculously stupid, and I’m _sorry_.”

You don’t really know what to say other than that and Porrim doesn’t seem to have any words for you, so you descend into silence once again. Eventually, Porrim sinks down to the floor, arms pulled up in front of her. Voice low, she asks, “How long until they kill us?”

Pursing your lips, you look down at the ground, considering. After a moment, you reply, “Could be today. Could be in ten years.”

Sounding bitter, she says, “Can’t they just get it over with?”

You shake your head sharply. Talk like that and it’ll last longer.

The uncertainty eats at your mind until you doze off, somewhere between two and eight hours after you were brought in—time is hard to keep track of here. The door opens, jarring you awake, and you half-expect it to be your father, but it is not. It’s a small group of Angels with Justine at their head.

Justine Lilhal. The woman in charge of I&A.

“Eridan,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “Tired of waiting, I presume?”

Your mouth is dry. Using what little power you have in your legs, you push yourself back, as far away from the approaching Angels as your chains will let you. “No,” you burst before you can stop yourself. You can feel cold sweat begin to gather on the back of your neck. “No. Not _you_ —”

Cocking her head to the side as one Angel grabs your arm and another undoes your manacles from the wall, she says, “Of course it’s me. Oh _Eridan_ , you’re a traitor now, don’t you know? Did you think your father would protect you? That’s laughable. _Of course_ you’re coming with me.”

“What’s going on?” Porrim questions loudly, rising to her feet.

This is it. Now or never.

Closing your eyes briefly, you imagine a box. Though you haven’t tried this in a while, it comes to you, and your pour your pain into it. It’s near-tangible; you can almost taste the sharp pinches when you shift flowing into your mind. You snap the lid shut, locking it with a twitch of your brow, and the box disappears.

As soon as an Angel is in range, you shoot to your feet, your pain distanced from you as you twist, looping the chain attached to your right wrist around his neck. The other one grabs you as you yank, choking the first Angel, and he shoves you into the wall. You know where Angels are taught to incapacitate people and this guy is new blood, so you’re able to dodge his swipes until the other Angel goes slack in your arms. Dropping him to the floor, you focus on the other Angel now, knocking his hand-stunner away and bashing him in the nose with your forehead before making a grab for the pistol at his hip.

Damn it, you’re too tightly chained to the wall to reach his belt.

That’s the slipup he needed. You’re bashed hard in the temple but instead of going crashing to the floor, you trick him, raising both hands like you’re going to strike him so he grabs one of your manacles. The fingerprint sensors pick up on the Angel’s pressure, and your left hand is free. It’s good to have your dominant hand out, even if they removed your prosthetic fingers, leaving you with two and a thumb; you’re still able to dodge a punch and rip his gun from his holster—

The Angel crashes to the floor, but not by your will. You’re on the ground next to him without realizing how you got there, gun knocked from your hand. A hard kick to your ribs slams you into the wall and knocks all the air from your lungs, bursting your mental box of hurts open so the pain in your joints comes roaring back. You’re kicked again, and an involuntary, sharp yell bursts from your lips. “Stop!” Porrim yells, voice shaking. Justine’s heavy boot lands on your chest, pushing down hard. It feels like your ribcage is bowing to her, and you feel a shift and a pop.

“Eridan, behave,” she says sternly, pressing down harder. You wish you could stop the pained noises that come from deep in your throat, but you know she’s cracked something and there’s still pressure and it hurts, it _hurts_ —

(“ _Stop!”_ Porrim continues to scream in the background _. “Stop it!”_ )

Justine does not stop until both Angels you’d fought are back on their feet. She undoes your remaining cuff then has the other two haul you to your feet. It isn’t just the pain in your legs that doesn’t let you stand on your own: you’re shaking so badly you feel like you’ve been set to vibrate. You don’t realize you’re crying until you sputter out, “W-why are you—w-when—can’t you just _kill me_? I w-won’t go, I w-won’t—”

Since she’s about a foot shorter than you, Justine reaches up to cup your face in her hands and brings you down to almost eye-level with her, stroking her thumb across your bruised cheekbone as she murmurs, “You don’t have a choice, do you? You could’ve been good for us, made Daddy proud, yeah? Shh, no need to be hysterical. Come quietly and maybe we’ll leave a little bit of you behind.” She pats your cheek as you break down sobbing.

“Eridan!” Porrim calls as they lead you away, stumbling and half-blind with tears. This is it. Porrim will be the last friendly face you’ll ever recall seeing. You’ll remember her terrified questions as the Angels mind-rape you into becoming a drone. “Eridan, what’s going on?”

You try to turn back to look at her, but they jerk you forward. Before the door closes, through hiccups and sobs, you hope Por hears you say, “I lo-love you.”

Once the door to the cell is shut and you’re standing out in the hall, Justine comments to your holders, “That scared her enough, don’t you think? Let’s make it easy on ourselves.”

You don’t see the syringe, but you feel the needle bite into your arm. You’re out in seconds.

 

* * *

 

You hurt. It’s not just your legs, though the throbbing of your knees and ankles is pretty prominent—you ache in your ribs and head and back. You feel the cool metal of a table under your cheek, and experimental movements of your wrists tell you they’re shackled to the table; the skin there feels raw, like you’d been straining against your bonds and they’d cut into your skin. Blinking awake, you sit up slowly, feeling as if there’s a rip in your chest as you do. To your hazy surprise, you’re not in one of the bright, sterile rooms that Justine uses for I&A—you’re in a standard interrogation cell, just outside the area you’d been kept in with Porrim, the cinderblock walls boring and gray and blank. You see the one-way window at your left, where you’re certain someone is watching you, and besides the manacles, you’re not hooked up to anything. If you were truly being brought into I&A, you’d already have an IV line. Licking your lips, you feel parched. Perhaps all your crying had dehydrated you.

You’re starting to think this whole thing might’ve been just a scare tactic, seeing as they’ve just left you alone in here, and your suspicions are confirmed when your father comes into the interrogation room, sitting silently in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Do you regret what you’ve done?” he questions, tone neutral. His expression is carefully empty.

Trying to make yourself blankface with him is impossible. The corner of your mouth twitches and makes a jab of pain shoot up your cheek. You wonder how bad your black eye looks now that it’s had a few hours to set. Does your father think it makes you look hardened, or simply pathetic? “W-what do you even think I _am_?” you rebut, and it comes out sounding so whiny and desperate; he knows you’re on the verge of crying again, you can tell, but this time you barely have enough strength to hold the tears back. It might be the last victory you ever have.

“I have been in very deep denial,” he says, adapting a didactic tone, “about your involvement with these rebel groups. I know you’re closely associated with Vantas and Nitram. I know Feferi has always had certain… leanings. I just thought your upbringing would overpower any outside influences.”

“If it makes you feel better,” you say, voice hollow, “I thought it would, too.”

Your father slams his hand on the table in front of the point where your handcuffs are shackled to it. You flinch back even though you tell yourself not to. “ _Nothing_ can make me feel better about this!” He growls in frustration, his other hand grasping at his short, thick hair. “You _do_ understand I’ve been protecting you for months, don’t you? As soon as you’re dealt with, the board will remove me from my post. Why the hell do you think I wasn’t on the team that brought you in? Do you not _care_ about what damage you’ve done to our reputation?”

“I’m so sorry,” you say, your low tone sarcastic and bitter, “that I’ve ruined your oh-so-wonderful career by my gallivanting in the Furthest Ring. If I’d known it would’ve had such _dire repercussions,_ I would not have—”

He backhands you, hitting the bruise under your right eye. It aggravates the cut on the inside of your cheek and a glob of blood-spit combo bursts out of your lips and onto the table unwillingly. Your eyes water yet again; you still don’t let anything spill, glaring balefully at the metal cuff keeping you chained to the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and to his credit, he sounds it. “Eridan, I…” You still don’t look at him as he forces himself to calm down, and he goes from leaning over the table to reclining back in his seat, looking at the ceiling. You wonder if he’s praying to your mother for a way to deal with you. She was always better at it. His next words are softer. “You do understand why this is a completely lost cause, don’t you?” You give a non-committal shrug. “Glenda’s daughter knows it, and hopefully she’s telling everyone left about it, seeing as we haven’t been able to find her.” He gives you a pointed look.

You swallow before speaking so your voice is steadier. “I will never regret giving her that silencer.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” he says, the faintest lines of exasperation beginning to appear on his forehead. “But what I know and she knows and you _don’t_ is that people in the Burbs _do not need_ those in the Furthest Ring. They exist because we humor them.”

“So you’ve said,” you reply, voice dripping with contempt. “It’s the same old song and fuckin’ dance—”

He snaps, “And you still don’t seem to understand. They exist because we were never cruel enough to end that, when they were being quiet and minding their own business just as we minded ours. Now, they’re being loud and destructive and keeping people up here from doing things they need to, so if this ‘protesting’ continues, they will be wiped out completely. Not just leaders. Not just the loudest ones. _Everyone_.”

You flounder for words. “Won’t… won’t the Burbs population get pretty fucking incest-y, then?”

Huffing a small laugh and then seeming rueful of it, he says, “You know as well as I do that our geneticists can deal with that.”

“Well what about _labor_?”

He looks at you like you’re a fucking moron. “ _Pisces_ ,” he says slowly.

Oh, an all drone-clone workforce, run by none other than Glenda Peixes. Sounds like a wonderful civilization to live in.

“Anyway,” your father continues, “both of our worlds have been mostly separate. The only difference is that if _they_ cause trouble for _us_ , we have the power to deal with them, especially now that Glenda has revealed her life’s work.”

A lump forms in your throat and you’re starting to feel very indignant, because he’s basically amounting your friends’ lives to absolutely nothing and yeah, with most people you’d agree that replacing people with artificial laborers would be a good strategic move, but you can feel Porrim’s hands in your hair dyeing your streak and you see Karkat working on lines of code and you remember Kankri moving purposefully around the hospital, supporting your back and helping you flush out your eyes so long ago. You’ve lived a lifetime since then. “Then why not just do it already?” you demand.

“Eridan, I know you think this is ridiculous,” Seymour says, sounding frustrated, “but we do realize those people are human. They have lives, and while they’re less meaningful than ours, they still exist and to be quite honest, they have just as much of a right to be here as we do. But we will kill them all before we budge on this. We’ve sent a firm message already, and now we have to see how they’ll react.”

“Everyone up here is on a power trip,” you say, feeling like a hypocrite because you have far too many of those yourself to be forcing blame on others.

Your father releases a long breath while staring at the wall behind you. After a minute of silence, he says quietly, “Why can’t you just cooperate?”

“I guess I’m stubborn like that.” You don’t feel stubborn, with your hands shaking where they’re curled into fists on the table. “I’ll take the I&A,” you say, sounding a billion times bolder than you feel. _You_ know that by the time they’re coming at you with a needle and scalpel to wipe away every conscious part of you, you’ll cave and be their good little soldier again, but _he_ doesn’t know that. You’re certain he knows of your earlier hysterics, but you’ve had time to calm. He thinks you’ve changed so much that you’ll dig in your heels, even when it means your end.

Shame comes with that thought. When it comes down to it, at the culmination of it all, you’ll always just save yourself.

His voice is small and the closest you’ve ever heard it to being afraid. “Don’t make me sign a death order for my own son. Don’t put me through that.”

“You’re losing your job anyway, if what you’re saying has any truth to it,” you say impartially. You’re surprised you still have this much control over yourself; you already know when you get back to your cell, you’re going to curl up in a ball and catalogue your hurts and cry, because at this point death is probably the best thing that could happen to you. “Don’t sign it, then. Let someone else do it.”

“So you’ve accepted that you are going to be killed with the rest of the insurgents?”

Your lips tremble terribly. You breathe in, and it’s a sniffle. “I don’t wanna die, Dad. I don’t wanna get wiped, either. But I guess I will.”

He can’t look at you. As he gets up from his chair, he doesn’t ruffle your hair or give you advice or tell you he loves you. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets and turns like even glimpsing you right now would be unbearable, and he strides from the room, leaving the door open behind him.

They bring you back to your cell, just like you thought they would. Porrim is gone, and the fear that squeezes your stomach as you lean against the wall and stare at the empty cage is what finally causes the tears to spill over. You want to tuck your knees up, but your joints ache too deeply and there’s a sharp rip in your chest that makes you leave your legs stretched out on the floor as you try to sob silently, shoulders shaking. Each cry hurts like you’re getting kicked all over again, but you can’t make yourself stop, too goddamn tired to try. You didn’t want to die for this cause. You especially didn’t want to be _martyred_ for it, like Kankri forcibly was. You’re a terrible posterboy for a revolution—normally, the people who pose for propaganda want to be there.

Your gut floats into your throat when they bring Porrim back, looking reasonably unharmed. Your face is still red and splotchy when she returns, a contrast to her unusual pale pallor that brings out her dark, curling tattoos. Normally, you’re used to them flowing on her brown skin, looking like inky rivers, but now they’re almost stark. She looks absolutely relieved to see you, and when you’re alone (but still watched) she says, “What the _hell_ , Eridan, I thought they were killing you.”

Despite the harshness of her words, her tone is filled with relief. Shrugging slightly, you say, “The woman was the head of I&A. I thought I was gonna get wiped, but they were just trying to scare us.” She doesn’t ask if it worked for you, nor does she say that it made her admit anything during her first bout of interrogation. “Did they hurt you?”

Shaking her head, she says, “They threatened it, but I think they just want to let it build. It’s working; I’m antsy as shit.”

You know she’s lying for the sake of the listeners. It’s a good tactic, but you wonder if they see through it like you do. Porrim is the kind of person that would need every terrible bit of I&A to make her talk; she’d never do so voluntarily, even if she knew what they wanted from her. They’ll have to break open her mind and trample every part of it, ripping free whatever they want and leaving her broken and bare afterward. “What kind of questions did they ask?” you inquire.

“Basic shit. They asked about my childhood on the streets, how I met Kankri, when I got involved in the movement.”

So she didn’t mention the Church. That’s probably a good thing. Swallowing, you give her a shaky smile. “Be stronger than me, okay?”

Her expression crumples for a moment and your stomach drops before she gets ahold of herself, quietly saying, “You know I love you too, kid.”

Surprisingly, the door to your cell opens. It’s rare for Angels to reappear so soon—making people wait is standard procedure—so you think this can’t be good. The two Angels that come towards you are not the same pair that escorted you out earlier, and as they unlock your cuffs from the wall and shorten the link between them so you can be easily led, you snap, “What now?”

“Just be quiet,” one of them huffs, irritated.

You glance back at Por one more time before you’re dragged out.

You are brought back to the processing room, where you’d waited for hours with Porrim, Mituna, and Sollux. Sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs, gnawing on his nails, is Cronus.

He springs to his feet when the door swings shut behind you. The Angels switch out your cuffs for a smaller pair, and they hand Cronus the key. “If you unlock his bonds within one thousand feet of headquarters, his bail will be violated. Remember to attend all hearings electronically on the specified dates. We hope to never see either of you again.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Cronus says, a scowl tugging one corner of his lip down. You’re deeply confused as the Angels release your arms, and without anyone hold you up, you sink to the floor.

“Fuck,” Cronus spits under his breath, taking a USB drive that’s shoved at him before hauling you to your feet.

“What’s going on?” you ask, voice shaking. Your brother just shushes you, his hand clenching in the fabric of your prison shirt as he takes a few breaths, gathering his bearings. An Angel clears her throat and Cronus’s grimace deepens before he drags you out the door and to the elevator.

Even as you descend, Cronus’s hand remains fisted in your shirt; at this point, it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Thoughts racing, you lean heavily on the bar running around the closed space. Elevators this small are definitely not your favorite place, but your shaky breaths don’t increase or get more desperate so you think you’re fine.

When the doors open on the bottom floor, Cronus reaches back to tug you sharply. One of your legs doesn’t take your weight and you fall again, ending up sprawled out on the ground in between the elevator and the lobby. The Angel on guard duty doesn’t look over, but you can feel her watching your reflection in the glass windows at the front of the building. “God _dammit_!” Cronus bites, stepping back to help you up. You glare at him all the while, because _he_ yanked _you_ , and as your arm settles heavily over his shoulders and his hand cups you tightly by the waist, he mutters, “Sorry, chief, sorry.”

There’s a light-blue cab waiting for you outside. Once you’ve been driving for about a minute, Cronus leans over, undoing the handcuffs then rolling down the window to toss them onto the street. All the while, you just stare at your brother, stupefied. Once he’s settled back into his seat, he just stares back, lips pursed until you break and demand, “What the fuck just happened?”

Cronus snorts, rolling his eyes. “I paid your fucking bail is what happened. You’re welcome.”

Your mouth drops open before you can fully comprehend his statement. “I had _bail_?”

“You fucking idiot _, of course_ you had bail. It’s customary with level 9s and above, _remember_?”

“But…” You think about Porrim, now alone in her cell waiting for someone who will never return. They probably won’t even tell her what happened to you. “But I was accused of _treason_.”

“Yeah,” Cronus says, tone clipped. “Since Dad was the one holding you and only family can pay bail, they didn’t think he’d be ballsy enough to get you out. They forgot all about little failure me, and now they all feel like idiots. Honestly, though, it’s good for them and they know it. Now they don’t have to deal with you anymore.”

“They will if I go back down to the Furthest Ring, shithead.”

Cronus just scowls, tapping his feet on the floor of the car as you gaze out the window and feel sick. Why should _you_ get to leave? Sure, the Captors and Porrim are all much more integral to the movement than you are, but why the fuck did you still have bail posted? It still doesn’t make sense to you.

(Maybe your father really _didn’t_ want to watch you die.)

Mercifully, there is an elevator in Cronus’ apartment building, unlike yours. He helps you through the halls here, too, and doesn’t let go until he’s lowering you down onto his couch. You immediately lay down, propping your legs up and watching him leave the room. His apartment is just like how you remember it—dirty and unorganized and dimly lit—save for a pile of luggage near the front door. There are two suitcases, a duffel bag, and his guitar case, all sitting neatly to the side and out of the way.

You don’t understand. Where the hell would he be going?

Cronus comes back with loose bandages, antibiotic cream, a hand mirror, a t-shirt, and loose sweatpants for you. You begin taking off the scratchy inmate clothes immediately, but don’t get far, your chest protesting too much to raise your arms above your head. Cronus helps because he must, his movements hurried but surprisingly gentle. Once the old clothes are discarded on the floor, he says, “I’m gonna run to the pharmacy. Stay here.”

“Does it look like I can go anywhere?”

Your brother just snorts, rolling his eyes and heading back outside. You hear the click of the lock behind him.

Reaching to the coffee table, you grab the mirror. You haven’t really been able to see yourself, and now you’re glad about that—you could feel that your right eye was pretty much swollen shut, but now you see the purple bruise and the bloodshot appearance of your sclera. At first, it had hurt so much that you’d wondered if the blow had cracked your skull, but then Justine broke one of your ribs and you remembered how much something like that _really_ hurt.

After putting cream on the scrapes across your jaw, there’s really not much you can do until Cronus comes back. You don’t have your tablet anymore and he didn’t leave his so you can’t even play a fucking video game. All you can do is sit there and twiddle your thumbs.

Cro comes back almost half an hour later with one bag of purchases and crutches. Even though they’re underarm and not forearm, you’ve never been so happy to see two sticks of metal in your whole life. “Sit up,” he barks, and you swing your legs to the floor, flinching as pain shoots up each one when they hit.

Yanking your shirt up, Cronus examines your chest. When you look down, you see the worst bruise is on the left, deep purple with bits of red seeming to leak up to your skin. There’s a lighter, violet-green one higher up on your other side. Both hurt something fierce when Cronus pokes them, and he ends up taking a box of big bruise patches out of his bag. He’s rougher at applying them than Fef would be, but there’s instant relief when the coolness sticks to your skin. “You can do the rest,” Cro says gruffly, handing you the bag. He leaves the room to do God knows what.

There are some smaller strips for cuts too, and you smooth one on the underside of your chin. On a whim, you stick two of the leftover patches meant for your ribs on the back of your knees. You turn and prop your feet back up on the arm of the couch to apply them, and while it does feel slightly better, you know it won’t work in the same way. Arthritis is different from bruising and cracked bones.

You must fall asleep for a little while, because it’s brighter out when Cronus shakes your shoulder. You wonder how much time has really passed since you were captured. It can’t be the same day and it’s not the middle of the night, so by your estimates, it has to be sometime during the morning after. “Come on, kid,” he says, and his voice is softer now. You find your right eye is now _completely_ swollen shut, but you can still look at him with your other one. He’s changed clothes for a more practical set—a plain gray t-shirt and black pants that hug his thighs and calves. The luggage is gone.

That’s what clues you in. “Where are we going?” you ask suspiciously.

“Can’t you just trust me?” he begs—yes, _begs_ , it astounds you—with an edge in his voice. “Eri, we need to _go_.”

Your dad may think you’re dumb and slow to catch onto things, but you understand what your brother is saying immediately. “What the fuck, Cro? I can’t leave the city, I don’t have a fucking permit—”

“I applied for one for you,” he says levelly, “while you were still in the hospital when you first… got back, let’s say. You’re my brother and a minor. I could do it.”

“What the fuck,” you say flatly. “Where do you expect to go?”

“Where do entertainers _go_ , you brat?” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “Pasadena! I got cleared myself the day after Mom died so I’ve been waiting, and then _you_ came back so I had to wait _more_ —”

“I’m sorry I put such a damper on your plans!” you say, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “How the fuck were you able to get me cleared? The Angels check the requests.”

“Dad doesn’t,” Cronus says simply. “Did you seriously think that any of them would actually _want_ you there, when you came back crippled? Look, here’s how it’s going to go: the other senior Angels will coup Dad. The gangs and the Church will continue to be nuts. The Furthest Ring will be burned and bombed, and everyone like Fef and those thumps you seem to love so damn much will be dead. Even if by some miracle you’re not dead with them, there will be nothing for you here. So do the easy thing and come with me to Pasadena. We can start all over, I can teach you guitar or something so you can fit in better, we could have good lives—”

“I’d never be happy,” you say, voice raw. You can’t look him in the eye, because you don’t want to see how mad he’ll get when you tell him no.

“Then you fucking _make_ yourself happy, Eridan,” Cronus says, voice husky. “You fucking make it happen because I don’t want to leave you here to die.”

You purse your lips angrily, staring at the wall. Your brother tries to tug you off the couch, but you shake your head, feeling like a petulant child. “Cro, I can’t go, I _won’t_.”

Sighing harshly, he runs a hand through his gelled hair, certainly getting the product on his hand but he’s too agitated to care. “Where was this stubbornness when Dad was making you join the Angels, huh? Where was it when Peixes was coercing you into running off with her?”

“I’ve been doing my best,” you say. “Going with Fef was my choice, but Dad _forced_ me—”

“And yet you were _so convinced_ that you were doing it out of your own fucking volition,” Cronus laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “Y’know, if you’d stayed out of the Furthest Ring, you wouldn’t have ended up an Angel. That’s _hilarious_ to me!”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. “What a fuckin’ joke, I would’ve gone in even _faster_.”

“You’re wrong.” Cronus’s lip twitches with something akin to disgust. “Mom was going to keep you out at the end, even if she let Dad put you through training. When she died, guess who was officially listed as the recommendation for her post? Come on, it’s real easy, nepotism goes a long way up here.”

Your lips part automatically. No. He has to be full of shit.

“Do you even understand how fucked up or childhoods were, even for bucks?” Cro questions, crossing the room and back once, twice, then stopping in front of a window. “It’s like, I want to say that Mom loved us more than Dad, but in the end she was just going to use you too. Because you’re the _good_ son, right?”

“Cro—” you start to say, because he’s starting to sound frantic.

“Dad wanted me for the Angels at first, sure,” Cronus allows, starting to pace again. “But I guess when both of your kids are whiny little brats, you take the one that’s not _clumsy_ , right? At least that got me out of it! I was disillusioned with the Angels by ten, and when _you_ were ten, I fucking _hated_ Dad for starting the same shit he did with me. Maybe _you_ didn’t cry when you broke your wrist in training, way the fuck back, but _I_ did, because you were too obedient for your own damn good, and that’s when Mom told me she was going to keep you out.”

Swallowing and attempting to speak past the lump in your throat, you ask, “Why are you telling me this?”

He pauses again by the window, sweeping his arm out at the city. “Because I’m your family! I’m your fucking _brother_ , Eri, but up here, that doesn’t mean I had to love you. I wasn’t supposed to! There’s not room for shit like that here.” His arm snaps back down to his side, his hand balled into a fist. “But I did. I do. And that means I am not leaving until you look me in the eye and say you don’t care about me enough to go with me, even though you’re going to die here otherwise.”

You take a look at the set of his shoulders, the desperation on his face, the trembling of his hands. Smoothing your own sweaty palms on your older brother’s borrowed pants, you say, “I’ll tell you what I told our father: I’m ready to die.”

Cronus’s jaw goes slack. His fists unfurl, hanging limply at his sides before his anger comes burning back, making him kick over a guitar stand that was resting by the window. “No you’re not, you fucking child,” he says, words deliberate despite his tremulous tone, and he gulps in a breath, leaning against the wall to steady himself. “You fucking… little… piece of shit _brat_ … when your brain is splattered all over the street, you’re going to fucking _wish_ you came with me.”

With that, he grabs the jacket he’d slung over his armchair, puts it on forcefully, and stalks out the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the building rattles.

Standing, you make yourself shuffle to the window and watch him go. He practically throws himself into the small blue cab, and it silently pulls away from the curb, going up a block before going around a corner and taking your brother out of sight.

Turning your back to the street, you lean on the wall and slide down it, putting your head in your hands. Maybe Pasadena won’t be falling to shit like Canaveral is. Maybe he’ll actually be happy there.

Maybe you’ll survive long enough to know he made it safely.

However, you doubt that, because before you can even consider going down to the Furthest Ring to find Fef, there’s business you have to settle here.

You might as well take advantage of your brother’s mostly-full apartment. You grab your new crutches and go to Cronus’s bedroom, finding a backpack shoved in his closet. He’d left a lot of things here, unable to bring much to Pasadena, so you’re able to get clean clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom. You’re a similar enough shoe size that you can cram your feet into a pair of his pristine brown boots—the fit is rigid enough that your bad foot hardly droops—and an abandoned coat of his is a little tight but it still zips up. You find an old pair of computer glasses in a desk drawer, the frames rounded unlike the boxier style you normally wear, but they turn on when prompted. The network is still down so there’s no connection, but you might need them later. Continuing to rifle around in his desk, you come across a small pistol that Dad had bought him during his brief bout of Angel training. There’s no ammunition with it, but when you check the clip, there are fifteen shots remaining. You can almost taste the relief curdling deep in your chest, and you make sure the safety is on before shoving the pistol in your pocket.

His kitchen is your next stop, seeing as you haven’t eaten in almost a day. Cronus has pretty much emptied it, but you drink some water from the sink and find a dented box of protein bars shoved in the back of a cabinet. You eat two then shove the rest into your bag before heading into the restroom. Leaving your backpack and crutches leaning against the counter, you turn on the shower and sit on the toilet seat while tugging off your borrowed clothes. Due to the patches on your skin, you’re able to get your shirt off with much less trouble than before. In half an hour, you’re clean and as comfortable as you can be.

Cronus must’ve gone down to the taxi office itself in order to schedule a cab, since the network is still down, so you can’t order one. You let yourself rest for another hour, seeing the light from the window move on the floor as afternoon comes and you’re unable to do anything but diligently watch the front door and wait for an Angel raid, because you bet part of your bail deal was that you were to leave with your brother, but they do not come. By the time your knees have settled down enough for you to bend them, you know you have to go.

You’re free for now. With this opportunity, there’s someone else’s freedom you now need to secure.

The Church’s massive estate is on the opposite side of town as Angel Headquarters, and seeing as Cronus tried to get his townhouse as far away from the Angels as possible, it’s only about half a mile to where you need to go. You let yourself be a little religious for a minute, thanking God for a brother that’ll scream at you one second but give you crutches the next even though you don’t really believe, and you hope for luck. You almost wish you could get Vriska to come with you; if you want to live to see Fef again, you’ll need every spec of luck in the Burbs.

Either luckily or unluckily—that remains to be seen—Gamzee is leaning against the gate to the property driveway when you approach, smoking.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in front of him. He seems even taller when you’re slumping on crutches, the black makeup around his eyes darker and more menacing. It occurs to you that you have not seen Gamzee Makara since you tried to shoot him at a tense meeting, and even if he’d acted blasé about it at the time, right now, he could probably kill you with a glance. You’re in no condition to get into a fistfight with a sadistic, psychopathic clown.

“I need to talk to your father,” you say, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

A slow grin creeps over his face, his expression shining with a sinister, unabashed glee before taking a drag of his cig washes it away. “Here comes Judas.”

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see someone approach—he’d said it so plainly, and there _had_ to have been a reason Gamzee was waiting out here—but he just tuts, shaking his head before rubbing his thumb across the tip of his cigarette, turning it blue momentarily, before shoving it into his pocket. Turning around, he wraps his long, spidery fingers around the bars of the gate, laying his forehead in the depression between two bars.

“For thine this is the kingdom,” he says, closing his eyes. A chill goes down your spine, then the gate unlocks.

You can’t shake the idea that you’re the first Angel ever to enter Church property as Gamzee leads you through the gardens surrounding you. Though the Burbs has a penchant for greenery—how else would you show off your wealth in this wasteland?—this feels excessive. Grass covers every piece of ground that isn’t the main drive; the shrubs and hedges lining the road are taller than you, taller than Gam; ancient trees that were somehow invisible to the outside arch proudly upward, providing some bit of shade to the two of you as Gamzee leads you to the very back of the property, past cloisters and chapels. You get caught staring up at the branches, begrudgingly admiring how thick and winding they are, and Gam smirks before you can wipe your expression of all wonder. You’ve seen plants before; these are just… big.

The grand mansion that is Gareth’s seat of power reminds you strikingly of the house Fef grew up in, immaculate and imposing. All of the windows are stained-glass, depicting figures and stories and prophecies, but the great columns and sweeping staircase at the front of the estate bring you back to the place you spent a great deal of your childhood, when Glenda permitted it.

“Wait here, my brother,” Gamzee says as you reach the stairs. You gaze upward at the long, wide set of steps, thinking about what a bitch they’d be to climb, and you watch Gamzee ascend, slipping inside the house silently.

When he’s gone for five minutes, you plop down on the stairs, leaning your crutches against them and trying to hide yourself slightly in the shadow of the railing. You feel so exposed right now, out here alone where anyone could be out to get you. You wonder where Kurloz and Meulin are. You wonder if she’s changed her mind for good about wanting you dead. You wonder if she still thinks it was worth it.

Almost twenty minutes later, Gamzee emerges, coming down the stairs with very little grace. You move to stand, but he holds out a hand, telling you to stay seated. He comes to crouch down next to you, holding something out with a smirk.

You recognize the packaging immediately. It’s a fentanyl patch.

Your breath freezes in your chest. You can’t make yourself take it. “Whatever you want from my father,” and from his tone, you truly can’t tell whether he’s talking about the Archbishop or God, “you’ll need to ask for it standing proudly. Can’t have you hobbling on in like some broken old thing, looking useless. He will want you whole, not burst into itty bitty fragments.”

Biting your lip and thinking for a moment, you weakly reply, “Getting off these was abysmally shitty, you know. Withdrawal and all that shit.”

“One and done,” Gamzee says, his reassuring expression not faltering.

Against all better judgement, you take it with shaking hands, pulling off the paper and slapping it onto your lower back.

“Now was that so fuckin’ hard?” Gamzee asks, tone amicable.

Hollowly, you say, “I hope it’s worth it.”

As you wait for the medication to kick in, Gam doesn’t try to rush you, and you hate him for it. This is the clown that murdered Abraxas, who writes passive-aggressive religious drivel on billboards, who is quite possibly off of Serenity when he absolutely shouldn’t be.

You remember breaking his nose as a kid. You remember him telling you that you could still be saved.

Steeling yourself, you rise without a trace of pain for the first time in what feels like forever. It’s time to meet Gareth Makara.

He leads you into the pantheon, taking you down hallways lined with marble columns and spotless floors, ceilings as high as heaven itself. Gareth’s chapel is as far back as you can get within the large manor, and Gamzee pauses outside of the white, grandiose doors that are three times your height. Must be a bitch to open. Placing both of his hands on your shoulders, Gam says, “You got to do what you got to do, brother.”

“Yeah,” you agree warily.

“You willing to sell your soul?” he asks, a rueful smile on his face as one of his hands reaches to your forehead, his thumb pressing a dot, dot, circle, curve. There wasn’t paint on his thumb, but you still feel marked by him. “‘Cause sometimes that’s what you gotta motherfuckin’ do.”

Swallowing, you say in a voice smaller than you wanted to, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do anything.”

Shaking his head slowly, he puts a finger to his lips, the paleness of it startling against the deep purple paint. “Don’t tell that to Pops.”

You push open the doors. The room is lit by shapes of pale color seeping in through stained glass and candlelight, the smell of smoke heavy. It makes your eyes water and you blink fast, making sure to clear your gaze by the time your even strides take you past rows and rows of pews to your objective.

The Archbishop of Canaveral is the largest, tallest man you’ve ever laid eyes on, even sitting down. He’s barrel-chested and immense, each one of his arms as thick as your head, and you think he’s either on some insane steroids or has been excessively engineered. (Honestly, it’s probably a combination of both.) A pair of juggling clubs rest against his throne, where he’s posed on a dais, above rows upon rows of a ghostly congregation, only present in spirit. You know this cannot be where he gives his sermons; he wouldn’t allow groups of bucks this deep into his home. It all must be for when he wants to put on a _real_ show.

A slow grin unfolds across his wide face, reminiscent of the one you remember seeing on TV the day Kankri was killed. “Now, ain’t this something. A little Angel comin’ to my humble confessional. I’m sure you’ve seen something of me before, out there on the television waves. You want proof of my miracles, aye? You wanna get out of here without getting blood all over your pretty little dress whites?”

You don’t let yourself swallow. You can feel sweat already gathering at the nape of your neck. “As you can see, I’m not wearing white. I came here to negotiate.”

He barks a laugh, one of his large hands closing around the end of a club. You don’t let yourself stare at the purple bat of hard wood. “ _Negotiate_ , the little twerp says!”

“Perhaps that was the wrong word,” you say smoothly, pretending you’re not seconds away from shitting your pants. The Archbishop is every ounce the nightmarish figure you’d imagined him to be since you were a child. For a moment, you wish you _had_ gone with your brother. “All I meant to say was that I have information you want. And you have the ability to do something for me.”

His eyebrows raise, and his, “Oh?” is mildly condescending. “Do get your explaining on, right quick.”

“You’ve always hated the Angels,” you say. “The feud has been going on for centuries. What I can give you—”

“No no no,” he tuts, shaking his head. “Tell me what you want, boy, and I’ll make the price.”

You try to subtly wipe your sweaty palms on your pants. “Porrim Maryam is currently being held by the Angels.” There’s no recognition in his gaze. “She grew up in your cloisters, a nun of the Dolorosa Order. Years ago, she fled—uh, she left without permission, with her younger sister in tow. I doubt she was ever removed from the Church records, and since she was raised here, her de facto justice system wouldn’t be the Angels. They have no claim to her.”

“A little lost nun,” Gareth Makara says, releasing a breath through his nose. His smile is gone. “A nun who ran away and scorned God.”

“No,” you say quickly. “She’s still religious. She just… she just wanted—”

“Nuns can’t just up an’ leave my cloisters,” the Archbishop says.

“Well _she did_ , fourteen years ago.”

Before you can continue, fire lights in his eyes, remnants of an old rage. Realization comes, and Gareth’s lips twitch. “Well, ain’t that convenient. Lotta people died ‘cause of your Daddy, you know.”

It’s bait. Even though your curiosity eats at your insides, you don’t rise to it. “I want you to make the Angels aware that Porrim Maryam is truly _yours_ , and then I want you to free her.”

“That,” he says, the syllable heavy, “is a big fuckin’ request.”

“I can kill for you,” you immediately offer. “I can make sure Meulin isn’t arrested, if she isn’t officially Church yet. I can—”

You’re interrupted by Gareth’s guffaw. He throws his head back and laughs to the high ceiling, the echoes bouncing around and vibrating you to your core. He lets himself laugh for as long as he likes, and eventually tries to say between chuckles, “Why would you ever fuckin’ _conceive_ that I care what happens to that _thing_?”

Meulin was around Kurloz so much that you figured he approved of the relationship. Now that you know it’s the opposite, you’ve lost a bargaining piece, plus you know she’s as good as dead the second Kurloz lets her out of his sight.

“Porrim Maryam,” he says, testing the name on his tongue and rolling it over in his mind. For a moment, you think he might strike you down here and take Porrim for himself, but then his grin abruptly returns. “But lucky for you, I like thinkin’ big, and while I got what I need, there’s just one place I can’t quite touch, so…” He displays his palms, leaning forward. “I’ll need your hands.”

Your lips thin into a line before you can control yourself. Washing your face clean, you wait a moment for him to continue, then realize he wants your hands now. Hoping that he won’t lop them off immediately and laugh, you cross the feet between you, resting your hands lightly on his. They’re much larger than yours, as you would think; unbidden, the image of Fef’s small hands in his comes into your mind, and it makes you sicker than you already feel. The Archbishop runs a thumb over your empty finger ports and _tsk_ s. “Which hand did you open my door with?”

You have to think a moment, because even though you’re left-handed, the unbalance you had after losing your fingers pushed you to be more ambidextrous. “My right.”

He moves fast enough that you flinch, automatically taking a step back, but he’s just leaned back in his chair, not cutting one of your hands off. Waving at you in dismissal, he says, “Good kid. Now shoo.”

Confused but unwilling to show it, you nod sharply and turn to go. On the middle step of the dais, you pause, looking back over your shoulder. “What about Porrim?”

“You’ll get the deserter,” he says off-handedly. “Now I think I told you to _shoo_.”

You begin to feel irate, but you squash it. You’ve already escaped execution once in the last twenty-four hours; you don’t need to do it again. _It can’t be this easy,_ you want to yell. _I know this isn’t over. What more do you want?_

Gamzee is still in the hall outside when you exit Gareth’s cathedral. He nods knowingly, like he heard the whole thing even though you feel like there’s no way his hearing is that good. “Feeling a-okay?”

“Yeah,” you say shortly.

He continues nodding, lost in his own rhythm. You stand there awkwardly for a moment, slipping your hands into your pockets. The movement spurs something in him, because his eyes focus on you and he takes your elbow, tugging you down the way you haven’t been before.

The way takes you around to the opposite side of the room encompassing the cathedral. He opens a nondescript door in a row of nondescript doors, revealing your crutches leaning against a wall as well as two stainless steel panes that slide open a beat later. Gamzee brings you forward, and you think to snag your crutches for later before the doors shut behind you.

You’re in an elevator. Instead of floor numbers, there are symbols.

:o)

:o(

Gamzee hits :o( and with a jolt, you’re moving down.

“Where are we going?” you ask. Gamzee doesn’t answer, finally releasing your arm. He rises on the balls of his feet, then falls back on his heels. He keeps repeating this motion even after you start ignoring him. The elevator sluggishly moves downwards, the lights in the ceiling flickering intermittently. After at least fifteen minutes—it’s hard to keep track of time—the lights go out completely, but the symbols on the floor buttons glow in the dark.

When the doors finally open, Gamzee takes your elbow again, like you’re a small child he doesn’t want to leave his side. You consider yanking out of his grip, but you’re daunted enough by what you see that you sort of like the reassurance of his touch.

The room outside is dark and metal. There are emergency lights lining the wall near the ceiling, casting a red hue over the walls and floor and even your skin, once you step out of the elevator. You gulp as the doors slide shut behind you and you hear the elevator begin chugging back up. “Where are we?” you ask quietly.

“Below,” Gamzee says. He begins to pull you forward, and you follow reluctantly.

You question, “Are we in the plateau still?”

“In a sense,” he says, “but we’re still in the Church.”

“That elevator is unauthorized,” you state. “There are only three in existence.”

“Four,” Gamzee says. “I don’t think you flew down here, brother.”

“Yeah but this one _isn’t supposed to exist_.”

“Says you.”

Irked, you shut up. Arguing with him is just distracting you from the chill in the air.

You don’t come across anyone as Gam leads you through a maze of corridors, all bathed in the same red light. You end up in a wide room with six doors, all with small windows criss-crossed with bars. Gamzee brings you toward one of them, reaching to open it.

Before he can, you yank your arm out of his grip. “What are you doing?” you demand, louder than you’ve spoken so far.

“Eridan,” he says carefully, reaching back out.

You step out of his reach. His hand hangs over open air. “I know what a fuckin’ interrogation cell looks like, Gam!”

By the time you’ve blinked, he has both of your wrists in a death grip and he’s suddenly in your face. His forehead tips into yours. “Shh…” he intones. “No one else can know you’re here, so you gotta shut up, little Angel.”

Dropping your voice to a whisper, you snap, “And what happens if I start yelling? God, I’ll fucking _kill_ you—”

“I’m keepin’ a brother safe, that’s all,” he says evenly, bringing you into your next cell. It’s even darker in here than it was in the halls. “What here for your girl and don’t make a fuss. I’ll come an’ get you. You don’t have to worry if you stay nice and silent, sound good?”

“ _No_!”

It’s not until you’re on your ass on the floor that you realize he shoved you down. You think he moved faster than an Angel as he quietly shuts the door. As a gesture of good faith, he does not lock it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being thrust into finale territory, Insurgency isn't done. I have parts of future chapters written, and I'm confident enough in my planning to post this. I'm still holding out on the chapter-dump for the main finale, since you have to have things _written_ in order to post them, but I feel like you all have waited long enough. I hope to have Insurgency done by the end of the year; you can always ask about progress on my blog.


	31. XXVIII- Archive 201

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step closer to the end. I would've liked to hold off on posting this until everything else was done, but I promised that I would update this month, and I like to keep my promises if possible. (Plus, I've slowed down on writing, and posting an update usually helps with that.) Don't forget about the chapter summaries [here](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/138961287004/the-story-so-far) for a refresher. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season; we must believe that 2017 will be brighter.

As a result of recent events, I truly hope you’ll continue our relationship with the Church. What began as an Angelic arrangement (the situation referenced in Archive 413) has made both of us flourish, and while they seem very capricious and unreliable, I’ve found them to be useful allies if you know how to work with them. For example, just yesterday I received the youngest Makara’s permission to use his symbol on a hit, to shake the foundation of the Angels and point them in the wrong direction while doing so. If a Makara kills an Angel, there’s nothing to be done about it—the Church runs on its own legal system and does not fall prey to the regular laws of the land, as they are always turned over to their own for punishment. For some crimes, this gets them off completely; for others, the reparations are much more severe. If Gamzee Makara had killed that senior Angel, nothing would have come of it besides more fire for the war. Either way, seeing his propagandic smile there exacerbated the feud and made them afraid. With the next step of my plan, the benefits will soon become clear.

When dealing with the Church, you have to be sly. Make it look like they come out much farther ahead in any arrangement, but reap most of the benefits yourself. Gareth Makara is a brute, but a clever one, so I hope you have the wits to outperform him like I did. You must also never face him alone, because he thinks that is weakness and will use that as an excuse to abuse you to no end. Upon his death, Kurloz is poised to take up the mantle, and I can’t see him being anything but a puppet. While incredibly skilled in chucklevoodoo, the boy is just that—a boy, who refuses to grow up and does stupid things like fall in love.

Or _will_ Kurloz lead next? My dear successor, if there’s somehow a way I have not killed off Kurloz Makara and made it so his younger brother will reign, please do finish the job for me. You must be the most clever you have ever been—well, not quite has clever as when you killed me, but almost there—because ruining your relationship with the Church would not be beneficial, but in my respected opinion, that man cannot take over.

It will be the one of the hardest things you have ever accomplished, so please hope that I’ve done it already so you don’t have to.

 

* * *

 

“Latula?”

Since you returned to the Bounty Hunters’ Guild with the knowledge that another building had been blown up—this time with hundreds, maybe even thousands of people inside of it—Latula had been sitting at the desk in the main room, staring at the front door and waiting for her sister to return. You feel lost, not knowing how to comfort her with false hope, since you’re nearly sure Terezi is dead. Uselessness has curled up and made a bed in the pit of your stomach as you stand off to the side, arms wrapped around your torso and trying not to think.

It's too early to be awake: the sun has just risen, and you hardly got a wink of sleep last night, curled up under an old coat in one of the collector’s rooms. If you hadn’t heard her rummaging throughout the night, you would’ve thought Latula had just stayed behind the desk all these hours, still staring at the door, because that’s how you left her and that’s how she is now.

There’s been no word from Kanaya or Karkat. You’d hoped desperately that they’d decided to come find you before Derse went down, but since they didn’t show up yesterday in the hours following the collapse, you’ve come to accept that they were stuck in the rubble, just like Eridan had been months ago. They probably weren’t lucky enough to have someone around to pull them out.

Eridan, Porrim, Sollux, and Mituna will be brought into I&A. Aradia, Karkat, Kanaya, Terezi, and Vriska are dead. Kankri was gone before anyone else, the catalyst for this fierce reaction. It was slow, slow, slow until now, but drop in a martyr and here you all are. Why were you chosen to stay alive? You’d rather have been one of the first to go.

The bell chimes as the door is whipped open, slamming into the wall behind it. You jump, posture becoming ramrod straight and Latula shooting to her feet, desperation in her eyes.

Rufioh Nitram stands in the doorway of his old workplace. Blood is leaking from a cut above his eyebrow and his forearm is covered in scrapes; one leg of his tight red pants is shredded. Latula sags back into her seat as soon as she sees his disheveled mohawk, gaze dropping down and head in her hands. Rufioh ignores her desolation, saying loudly, “Where is everyone?”

“You didn’t blow something else up, did you?” Latula asks, ignoring his question.

Blinking hard, Rufioh doesn’t balk at her accusation like he did when Porrim busted in like a hurricane and declared he killed Kankri. He just smoothly says, “You’re not going to be much help, are you?” His tone directly contradicts his hands: they’re shaking badly enough by his sides that it’s visible to you.

“Let’s go outside,” you say quietly, slipping by Rufioh and tugging the back of his shirt when he doesn’t immediately follow you. The door falls closed with much less flare than it was opened with. “Weren’t you supposed to be here yesterday?”

Exhaling sharply, Rufioh shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, I’ve been really fucking busy! I haven’t slept in two days, but people need me to be energized! Hell, I shouldn’t have even come here right now, but I need you to help me convince Karkat and Kanaya to get out there with me.”

Pursing your lips as you try to find words, you say, “Karkat and Kanaya are dead, Rufioh. Derse came down—”

“Yeah, I know,” Rufioh says, leaning against the side of the building, “but they weren’t in it. Tavros found them near our apartment, trying to figure out what the hell to do, because—” He breaks off, tearing his gaze away from the cloudy gray sky to stare at you. “Wait, you were _with them_ when they were captured.”

“Them” is no longer referring to Kanaya and Karkat. Swallowing, you say, “Eridan slipped me his silencer and I hid until they went away.”

You don’t expect the anger that scrunches up Rufioh’s brow. “You let them go?”

“I didn’t let _anyone_ do _anything_!” you snap, fists clenching. “Did I wish I didn’t have to hide? Yeah! But what could I have done, Rufioh? It was just me versus about ten Angels, who have _weapons_ while I was defenseless!”

Rufioh pushes himself off the wall, getting into your space. “It’s better to go down fighting than fucking _watch_ —”

“At least they didn’t get all of us! I’m sorry that Eridan chose the most useless person there, but he made a split-second decision and I didn’t want to dismiss it and be an idiot who got needlessly killed with the rest of them!”

You hide your face in your hands for a moment, tilting your chin up and taking some deep breaths. Porrim could have stood at the front lines with Rufioh. Sollux and Mituna had the capabilities to do whatever the hell they wanted with tech. Eridan was the best sharpshooter in this city-state. Who the hell are you? Some little ex-heiress with a savior complex? You didn’t matter enough to save and you know it.

But Eridan loved you, so he did it anyway.

“Come on,” Rufioh says suddenly, the harshness gone from his tone, and you’re drained enough that you just follow docilely. His motorbike is parked around the side of the building, and you get on the back without thinking, holding onto Rufioh’s shoulders as he backs the bike out and pulls onto the street. Belatedly, you wonder if he’s going to turn you in, but you squash that thought immediately; Rufioh may be pissed at you for being, well, _you_ , but as the de facto leader of this dying revolution, he’d never do something like that.

He brings you to an apartment complex on the other side of the Belt from yours, dilapidated and squatty. It’s a mere two stories tall, held together by moldy cinderblocks and rusty metal roofs. Behind it, the metal plateau holding the Burbs towers, all of the commotion at its base east of here. Because of its position and the time of day, the plateau casts a large shadow over the area, making it appear to be dusk when it’s still morning. At the sound of Rufioh’s approaching motorbike, you notice a few ratty curtains move aside as people peer out. You wonder if they’re curious about the noise, or they know Rufioh is home.

Rufioh dismounts the bike in front of one of the doors, and you follow suit. “Hold it up,” he requests as he finds the right key on his ring. You grab one of the bike’s handles, trying to listen to the muffled chatter going on inside.

Once he’s unlocked the door, he wheels the motorbike inside, you following behind. You get to hear the end of Tavros’s comment, pertaining to boy-skylark classes(?), before you hear Kanaya exclaim, “Feferi!” and she’s rushing to you, pulling you into a hug. You press your face into her shoulder and take a deep breath, fingers curling in the back of her shirt. You’re so relieved to see her that it’s hard to speak for minute, even as she pulls back, grabbing you by the shoulders and demanding, “What happened?”

You try to breathe in, but there’s something lodged in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you manage to warble out, “I’m so sorry.”

An arm slips around your shoulders. Karkat leads you to the couch, which expels a puff of dust as you fall into it, each of them pressing close to you. You feel Rufioh staring at you as Tavros whispers something to him. Embarrassed, you wipe at your tears, saying, “Angels.”

Karkat snorts. “No shit,” he says, but it’s not acerbic. He puts a hand on your knee, squeezing. “Is… Is there any chance that they..?”

“Bucks get automatic bail set,” you say, a little bitter, “but Eridan’s dad probably took his off. There’s—there’s no way my mother will let either of the Captors get away from her, n-not after Lydall. Porrim…” You trail off, biting your lip and squeezing your eyes shut. “God, I’m so sorry it’s me.”

You don’t expect reassurance from either of them that it’s alright. Porrim was their sister; she’d been taking care of them as long as they could remember, and you all knew she wouldn’t be easily manipulated. You dread what they’ll do to her.

“Feferi.” To your surprise, Rufioh has crouched down in front of you, and he’s looking at you with soft eyes. “Tell them that they should come with me.”

Blinking hard, you ask, “What?”

“You really want to talk about this now?” Karkat demands.

Rufioh looks weary, deep circles under his eyes and lines at the corners of his mouth. His hands hang limply between his legs, forearms resting on his thighs as he crouches. “It has to be now,” Rufioh says, solemn. “Look at what just happened. I’m not an idiot. I know this is almost over.”

“What have we got to do with you?” Kanaya says, tone low. “We stayed out of rioting. If you’ve mucked all of this up somehow, I don’t know how it’s our problem, and we won’t spread lies for you.”

“Lies?” you question.

“Yeah,” Karkat huffs, “the fucker wants us to say that your mom had Kankri killed.”

Rufioh hold your gaze, even as it turns into a glare. “You know Meulin did it, maybe with help from Kurloz. My mother had nothing to do with this.”

“It’s a better narrative,” Rufioh says, shrugging. His tone is soft. “Meulin wanted to martyr Kankri? Let’s make it worth it. The death of a bright, _kind_ kid like him doesn’t deserve to go away. It’ll give us another push.”

“Listen,” Karkat says, voice shaking and rage lying just under the surface of his prickly demeanor, “my brother was a preachy fuckface who, admittedly, was the perfect fucking martyr for your picturesque revolution. Sleep deprivation must be going to your head, man, because if you think Kankri would have appreciated this idiotic idea of yours for even a _millisecond_ , the tear gas must’ve made its way into your brain.”

“Karkat and Kanaya aren’t their siblings,” you say. “Families aren’t supposed to be carbon copies of each other. You’re just frustrated that you’re out of options, so now you want to _lie_! The police won’t help. Kankri is dead. Porrim and the Captors are gone. Latula is waiting for a dead little sister that’ll never come back and Aranea is trapped in the Burbs. Horuss is down here, but has he tried to contact you? No! So what does that leave you with, besides two kids who won’t lie for you?” You get up on shaking knees. “What will bringing them to the base of the plateau do besides get them _killed_?”

Rufioh stands to meet you. “Yeah, well, guess who’s not dead? The people who are with me. The cowards to fled to Derse all died thanks to a helicopter full of explosives and Angels, while the people who are actually making a _stand_ are still there.”

“Cowards?! You’re really going to call families fleeing with their _children_ cowards? You can’t be stupid enough to think this is going to work! It’s over, Rufioh. They won. Give up while there are still people left to want to save.”

Snorting, Rufioh looks behind you. “You guys listening to this buck? Aren’t you sick of people like her telling you to give up?”

You open your mouth to retort, then snap it shut, almost feeling chagrined. There’s a terse silence before Kanaya’s hand lightly touches your elbow. “Come on, Feferi,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” you say, feeling lost.

The pause is even longer this time. What can you do, really?

“We’re _out of options_ ,” Rufioh says, one of his hands tugging at his hair. The mohawk’s structural integrity is compromised, making it stick out at all angles. “It fucking _sucks_ that I’m not as good at this as I thought I would be, but right now, I am all they have, unless you—” He cuts himself up, popping his mouth closed and thinking hard. You wait in terse silence for whatever comes next. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more assured. “Unless _we_ get them back.”

Karkat flatly says, “What.”

“Yeah,” Rufioh says, letting himself fall back onto the couch. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth before declaring, “Yeah! We get to the Burbs and do justice building two-point-oh. Without the explosions, of course. I’m out of those. But with your silencer,” he looks at you, new fire alight in his gaze, “we can get in, get them, and get out. They won’t even know what hit them.”

Your hand slips into your pocket and curls around the device. “It hardly works on two people, and they have to be incredibly close to one another. We could _never_ smuggle them out, even if it did! Every door in the building is print-locked, and a silencer couldn’t get you through that! It’s _hopeless_!”

“It’s _not_!” Rufioh argues, rocketing back to his feet.

“Rufioh,” Kanaya says, trembling fingers pressed against her lips, “just let it go already.”

“How can you live with yourself?” Rufioh says, desperate. “It’s _your sister_ in there, and you don’t even want to _try_.”

“Stop pretending like you know _shit_ about our family!” Karkat shouts, fists clenched at his sides.

“How would we even get up there?” you ask. “The elevators have been shut down completely, and they’ll notice if they start operating again.”

“Horuss can get us up,” Rifioh says firmly.

Eyebrows raised, you say, “Horuss is probably with his father, where Latula and I left him.” _Rufioh Nitram is going to win this, and I will be by his side when he does_ echoes in your head.

Rufioh snorts, his septum piercing moving slightly. “Horuss!”

A door slowly creeps open before he even finishes the name, a large nose and curtain of hair barely poking around it. “Yes?”

Perhaps you should have expected Horuss Zahhak after his miraculous spine-growing moment in his father’s office, but you never thought he would’ve ended up here. Sure, he seemed to love Rufioh, but Zahhaks have a sense of self-preservation as large as they are. Horuss would’ve had to abandon that as well as his father’s wishes to be here, and here he is.

Rufioh says, “Show them Scared.”

You, Karkat, and Kanaya exchange bewildered looks. The door opens more and Rufioh goes into the bedroom, gesturing for you to follow. After a few moments of silence, you do, leaving Tavros on the couch.

“What Rufioh calls ‘Scared’ is actually a Short-Circuiting Rerouting Electronic Dial, or SCRED,” Horuss says, lifting up a pillow and removing a palm-sized black box with a large screen and four metal spikes protruding from the back of it.

“It’s because the bucks will be scared when they realize we have one,” Rufioh says smugly.

“I’m sure they will be,” Horuss says, tone fond. “They are used by the police to get into wherever they want. Just secure this to a lock, panel, or transportation mechanism and you can override protocol and make it to as you wish. Unlock things, drive a car…”

“Secure an elevator,” Rufioh declares. “Get into Angel Headquarters. Save our people.”

Shaking your head, you say, “It won’t work for the Angel HQ. Everything is print-locked, and the Angels would’ve never given the police that kind of power.”

“They wouldn’t have needed to revoke it,” Horuss says, but he sounds less sure. “My father believes that they wouldn’t have considered the police as enough of a threat to block their devices.”

“The Angels are full of paranoid control freaks,” you say. “Believe me, it won’t work.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kanaya’s voice warbles behind you. “If there’s a chance…”

“There isn’t,” you say firmly, turning to face her and taking her hands. Kanaya’s fingers curl around yours and her gaze stays on where they’re intertwined; you look to both her and Karkat as you say as softly as you can, “They’re gone.” You want to say _, Unless Eridan can bust them out_ , _Unless Mituna and Sollux can fry their system from the inside, Unless Porrim reaches a bargain,_ but you know when to hold onto hope and the time is not now. You’ve lost them all and the sooner you can accept that, the sooner you can turn your focus onto surviving.

“I used to stay up late sometimes,” you say, your thumb drawing small circles on the back of Kanaya’s hand, “helping Eridan study. He was meticulous when he was younger, memorizing rule books and making flashcards of protocol, trying to run scenario after scenario in his head just to impress his dad.” You can’t help but think of him, his sleeves too short and showing his wrists because of a growth spurt, leaning over a textbook the size of your head, squinting at the print as he absentmindedly shuffled some index cards. It aches to think of him, deep in your chest, but you refuse to forget him, not so soon and not ever. “I remember going through a manual on violent crimes and came to a section called _Insurgency_ , and it said that any supposed ‘rebel’ in Angel custody would not be labelled as one. The idea of rebels and uprisings were powerful, and even if those at the top could talk about them to each other, they must not say the word to the people at large. ‘Rebel’ carries the idea of hope with it, but it can’t afford to, so on the arrest records, our loves will be labeled as ‘insurgents’. This means that we are rising up over nothing. Our cause is not legitimate, and they won’t recognize it. It is _petty_ and I asked Eridan, ‘What do the Angels do with rebels they won’t call rebels?’

“And Eridan said, ‘They like to let other criminals stew, but insurgents? That paperwork hardly exists. Once an insurgent is brought in, the Angels will deal with them quickly before any ideas can spread.’” You take a deep breath, the air shuddering in and out of you. You squeeze Kanaya’s hands. “It’s been over a day. They are _gone_.”

“I say you give up too easily, _Peixes_ ,” Rufioh says.

You don’t look at him. You don’t acknowledge his words. Your attention is on Kanaya and Karkat. “These are terrible, awful times. Eridan and Porrim would want us to survive out of spite, if nothing else. Sure, there’s not a lot of places we could go right now, and maybe the bucks will give up on the Furthest Ring and bomb us out, but we owe it to them to live while they can’t!”

“You’re giving up,” Rufioh says, and you can practically hear the scowl on his face without turning around. “You’re just throwing up your hands and saying, ‘Well, there’s nothing left I want to do so I’m gonna sit around and do nothing!’ while there’s still so much to do. We could save them. We could save anyone the Angels still have! We can steal their tech, bring them to their fucking knees! I think it’s about time someone stepped in.”

Swirling around and dropping Kanaya’s hands, you yell, “You want to commit suicide with the biggest bang possible! That’s all this is. You’re tired of your revolution so you want to die in a way that’s _inspired_ when it’s really just hopeless! Or maybe you do think it’s possible, and you’re just a _moron_.”

“You’re the moron!” Rufioh throws back, and you scoff. “You haven’t been the help I’d hoped you’d be.”

“Aww,” you say patronizingly, “I’m so sorry I don’t want you to get my friends killed.”

“If you’re not helping,” Rufioh says, “you might as well leave. Oh!” It seems like he’s remembered something, and he holds his hand out expectantly. “Give me your silencer, if you won’t be using it.”

Your hand slips into your pocket, fingers grasping around the cool plastic oval. “It’s probably about to run out of battery, I’ve been using it a lot.”

“Then I’ll use the last of it better than you can,” Rufioh says, gesturing with his held out hand to give it up.

Swallowing, you say, “Eridan gave it to _me_.”

“And now you’ve gotten your use out of it,” Rufioh says. “Someone should at least try to do something good with it if you won’t.”

It’s hard to admit that he’s succeeded in guilting you. Without looking at him, you pull the silencer out of your pocket and slap in into his hand, then turn on your heel and stride towards the front door.

“Okay, now to the planning.” You hear Rufioh clap his hands and rub them together. “Karkat, could you—”

“I’m not doing shit,” Karkat says. “Have fun.”

Karkat and Kanaya join you when you sit down on the curb outside of the apartment. It’s quiet outside, no rumble of a motorbike or rustling of curtains. You put your head in your hands. “What a mess.”

Snorting, Karkat says, “Wow, what an astute fucking observation. Next you’ll say that Rufioh has a big ego.”

Kanaya wrings her hands together. “If there was a way to get to Rose, maybe she could do something. She still has the cue ball.”

“The Lalondes are probably long gone,” you say sadly. “They’re originally from Pasadena, and Dirk probably would’ve gotten them out of the city when the violence broke out.”

Pursing her lips, Kanaya just hangs her head.

After a few minutes of unbroken silence, you say, “We should probably head back to the Bounty Hunters’ Guild. That’s the only place I can think of to go.”

“I’d say maybe the Captor Compound,” Karkat says, “but there’s no way it’s not being watched, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Sighing, he gets to his feet first. “Then come on. If we cut through the Belt by the cargo elevator, it’s only about a two hour walk.”

It feels longer than two hours. After running for days on almost no sleep, you hardly want to put one foot in front of the other, but since you’re travelling in the shadow of the plateau, at least you don’t have the sun beating relentlessly on your back. You hardly pass anyone; the only signs of life you see are two people rummaging around in a warehouse connected to a large factory. All of the smokestacks are without their namesake, the customary rumbling of the Belt gone. You’re almost across the Belt when you hear the sound.

Loud, groaning, and mechanical. It comes from the plateau, and when you, Karkat, and Kanaya exchange glances, it’s clear that you won’t be able to continue on your way unless you check this out.

The noise brings you to the cargo elevator plaza, where the sliding glass doors are standing open. The building is the only one lit up on the whole street, and as you approach, someone begins speaking in a loud voice. Instead of listening like you should, you dive behind a dumpster, Karkat and Kanaya following. You try to peek out from a small crack between the brick wall and the metal bin, and you can just see inside.

There are lines upon lines of people, stretching across and back in the lobby of the building. They face outside, holding large rifles against their broad chests, in uniform black clothes. You can’t make out any of their faces, but they are the same height, the same bulk, and have the same hair color. Only the woman standing in front of them, back to you, is different from them—she’s tall, blonde hair tumbling down her back in perfectly styled waves, her black suit accented with bits of magenta. She holds a dual-ended trident in her hand, three of the tines pressing into the concrete ground.

“You,” your mother says, addressing the soldiers, “are the culmination of decades of work and study. Your programming won’t fail. You know what you were made for, and nothing other than that. Keep in mind that I will be filming and if you do not impress the Security Council, there will be dire consequences. I hope you’ve still got some Angel left in you, but even if none of that transferred, you were still made to kill. Don’t disappoint me.” She raises your trident above her head and brings it down hard onto the concrete.

The clones are spurred into motion, marching in perfect unison. The noise is loud, and as they come out of the building and immediately turn to follow the plateau to the main elevators and the gathered protestors, you’re able to count them. There are five to a row and there are fifteen lines of them stretching back to where your mother takes up the rear—seventy-five clones with seventy-five guns. You doubt the protestors have that kind of firepower. If this somehow goes badly for your mother, this stunt could give guns to people who need them and turn the tide.

Or the possession of weapons en masse could finally get them wiped out.

Kanaya moves first, skittering around the dumpster and pressing herself against the wall, inching closer to the forces. You and Karkat follow, coming up behind her as she leans around the wall.

“It looks like they’re going to follow the plateau until they reach their destination,” Kanaya says.

“Is there any way we can beat them there?” Karkat questions. “Warn everyone?”

You purse your lips for a minute, thinking. If Eridan were here and healthy, he could’ve climbed up and gotten there by going over roofs, but he’s neither of those things. “Let’s just follow from a distance,” you say. You leave out _, If someone turns around and catches us, we’re dead._

It takes a while before you hear the sounds of the protestors over the rhythmically stomping feet. You consider yelling out to warn them, but they’re not deaf; they hear the clones approach. As soon as the first shot is fired, the three of you watching in horror as the two forces clash, your mother slips away down an alley, unseen by anyone else because of her clones in front of her. Without thinking, you sprint after her, Karkat and Kanaya following at your back.

She’s climbing a fire escape ladder when you approach, hardly struggling even though she is still holding your trident. You’re sure she hears you, but her progress doesn’t falter. She probably wants a good vantage point to view the carnage. “Why would you bring out Pisces now?” you yell at her back, fists clenched at your sides.

This gives her pause; she probably thought you were long dead. Glenda doesn’t look back at you, but she does slide down the ladder, fuchsia heels hitting the pavement with a loud _clack_. You’re surprised neither of them snapped. She takes a few steps forward so she’s closer to you, but not in your face. “I’m showing them off to the security council, obvs,” she says. “They were gonna bomb the Furthest Ring. This is our last show of good fuckin’ faith before the boom.”

“Why not just do it?” you snap. “Just make your clones do everything down here, like you’ve been saying forever.”

Glenda scowls. The gunfire in the street is rapid now. “If this doesn’t work to subdue them, we will.”

It’s strange: your mother doesn’t seem nearly as in-control as she usually does. She’s letting her emotions show too easily and she’s rising to your bait. You think of the seventy-five clones of the dead Angel, a number that almost seems small when it comes to your mother’s usual grandstanding, and it clicks. “Oh my God,” you say with a small laugh. “You can’t make enough.”

“Of course I can!” your mother says.

“You really can’t,” you exclaim. “Where are the rest of your soldiers, then? What is it that’s stopping you? Are you running out of sopor? Not enough DNA to work with? Too much mutation during the growth process?”

By Glenda’s hardened glare, you’re sure it’s one of those. “Maybe too many of them turned into fuckups like you, sweetie.” She turns her head to look at the trident hanging at her side. She spins it around once and you can’t help but follow the movement before she tosses it at your feet. “Take your stupid toy. It’s served its purpose; I can leave easier without it.”

Frowning, you snatch it up. “If you think you’re getting out of here, you’re—”

Kanaya yells, “ _Feferi_!”

You know to dive out of the way, trident still curled in your grasp. The bullet skims your arm, but you don’t feel the pain yet. Another shot sounds and you hear the bullet bounce off the pavement near your feet, but you’re already up and rushing a few steps forward. One more shot by your ear; it’s so loud that the world goes white, and when you come back, your mother is pinned to the ladder, three metal tines protruding into her stomach. She looks stunned, staring down at the trident in horror, like she never thought you could’ve recovered it. It was supposed to be a distraction—Feferi reaches down for her shiny toy, Glenda removes a pistol from her suit and shoots her, because she’s been too much trouble.

At first, you can’t yank the trident free. Your first attempt has your mother stumble forward and onto her knees with a low cry, a bit of blood squirting, the trident angling up. You try again and it still sticks, making a loud squelch and nearly driving you to gagging. Your mother begins to laugh, shaking hands wrapping around the staff. She only says what she does because she knows you’ll think about it for as long as you live. “Maybe you’re like me after all.”

“No,” you say, voice shaking as badly as your mother’s hands. Finally, with one final tug, the trident is free, tips that your mother had sharpened herself coated in blood. Glenda slumps forward into the street, beginning to curl around her stomach wound before she stills.

Kanaya is the first one to step forward. She moves past you to your mother’s side, picking up the discarded gun. “Karkat,” she says gently as you just stare, and Kanaya dips her head slightly.

“Come on,” Karkat says, his usual gruffness gone. He peels the trident away from you and tosses it away. You think of Aradia giving it to you for your birthday, dented and dull, but you were so happy to have it. You wonder what she thought of when she died. Karkat pulls you since you haven’t followed on your own, and he takes you farther into the alley, past your mother because people are starting to run down the street, away from the fighting. You don’t know what will happen now, with the clones and the protestors and the guns. You don’t know who will gain the upper hand and come out victorious.

 

* * *

 

When you appear at the base of the plateau, surrounded by shouting rebels and clones alike, you are not Feferi Peixes. You fought all the way through and decided to take advantage of the now-operational elevator, because you have a job to do and people to save.

Your name is Rufioh Nitram, and you’re ready to save your friends.

“I need ten of you!” you call as Horuss plays with Scared. Only two in the nearby crowd seem to hear you, their heads whipping around as everyone else stays focused on the fighting, but all attention in the immediate area is on you when the doors slide open. “Ten people with guns! Come on, come on!”

Once everyone is inside, Horuss slams Scared into the control panel, near the buttons. This takes longer than getting it open, but you and two girls who picked up guns from clones keep anyone trying to stop you away. Finally, Horuss makes a triumphant sound and hits the button for the top floor. The doors hiss shut and the elevator begins to move smoothly upward.

“What’s going on?” a bald man asks.

“We’re storming Angel headquarters to get our people,” you explain. You go into greater detail describing the path to the building and what you’ll try to do once you enter, but even though you’re going to a building owned and operated by the most feared people in Canaveral, the way over should be easy with Lord English down.

Once you reach the top, everyone has been briefed and you’re ready, chest burning with the desire to finally do what’s right. Horuss leads the way, saying it’ll be about a twenty-minute walk, and as he starts down the empty street, he takes your hand.

You feel uncomfortable, but you don’t have it in you to drop it. You and Horuss have been together for almost a year, once you got caught cheating on Damara with him, and you still don’t really regret that. It sucks that you had to hurt Damara and you’re proud of her for what she accomplished with the Felt, but you weren’t a great match. Horuss was nice and smart and well-connected, so of course you were with him. For a while you were even in love with him—his large hands, his deep but soft voice, his thick hair and careful demeanor—but that faded as he grew more and more attached to you. You saw that he was so happy with you and you wondered why you weren’t as happy with him.

Perhaps you fancy yourself a rebel leader, but you can’t even be brave enough to break up with your boyfriend. You save your bravery for other areas, but spread your commitment around.

Horuss appears confused as you rush through the final blocks before your assault on the headquarters will begin. He keeps looking up as if expecting to see something in the sky, but when you press him, he just smiles. That makes you think he could be betraying you, that all of this has been an act from him, but you also want to be selfish and believe he’s really in love with you. It’s not fair to him, but you want it anyway, even if you no longer reciprocate. Anyway, his confusion seems too genuine to be a farce.

You make it a block away from the entrance to Angel headquarters, turning onto the street, and you wonder what building it is; the ones framing the street are much smaller than you expected. Horuss freezes, though, and when you stop a few paces ahead of him, the rest of the group does so as well. The police, you realize, are blocking off the end of the road, most of their backs turned toward you. You back up quietly, hoping to begin a retreat and hit the building from a new angle, but Horuss grips your arm hard. “It’s gone,” he says in horrified wonder.

“Horuss, the police,” you hiss, tugging slightly.

His fist tightens around you. “It’s gone. Where could it go? It’s a building!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Horuss?”

“There isn’t even any rubble.” Horuss steps forward, trying to take you with him, but you stand firm and yank him. Sometimes, you forget that Horuss is bigger than you, and you remember that fact suddenly. You’re tall and broad-shouldered, but Horuss is a mountain. Nonetheless, he allows himself to be pulled back. “Rufioh, it disappeared!”

“You’re not making any sense,” you say as someone yells, “Freeze!”

You swing your gun off your back and shake out of Horuss’s grip and as you use a split second to take aim, you’re hit. You stagger back and Horuss shouts as you fall onto your ass, stunned. It doesn’t even hurt until you reach back to catch yourself—when your right hand connects with the asphalt, a white hot stabbing sensation shoots through your ribs and shoulder, and you tumble sideways. Squeezing your eyes shut momentarily, you try to pinpoint the bullet wound: lower than your shoulder near the side of your ribs… your other hand reaches up and finds blood. Yeah, shot in the chest. Despite the pain, it feels almost like it didn’t happen.

You’re not down for more than a second before Horuss is over you, his hands raised. “We surrender!” he calls to the rapidly approaching police officers, but some of your guys trade shots anyway. A few hit the pavement with more finality than you, but you don’t know how many. Why were the cops already here? Did they know you were coming and intercept you?

It's over quickly. They cuff you, and you can’t hold back a grunt of pain when they force the arm on your bad side behind your back. “Please don’t hurt him,” Horuss begs. They haven’t cuffed him. They haven’t cuffed him. “Please, I was promised you wouldn’t hurt him.”

“He had a weapon,” one cop says and they still aren’t cuffing him.

“What did you do to Angel HQ?” Horuss asks. Despite the way you’re staring him down, he won’t look at you.

The cop he’s talking to lets out a slow breath. “We didn’t do anything. It’s just gone.”

“Where’s the rubble?”

“It didn’t get blown up. It’s just fucking _gone_. No sign that it was ever there besides the empty lot and the pipes. It drops off where the underground section is and then you hit the foundation.”

“How?”

“We wouldn’t tell you even if we had a clue.”

“Horuss,” you say. The officer who cuffed you hauls you to your feet by the collar of your shirt, and you grit your teeth.

Your boyfriend looks down at the pavement, away from you. The officer he was talking to holds her hand out for Scared, and he puts the device in her palm. “I had to,” he says in a small voice.

“You told them we were coming.” Your voice is hollow.

Horuss looks pained but you’re the one who got shot so you should be _so fucking angry_ but this isn’t happening. He didn’t sell you out. Horuss says, “It was the only way I could save you, Rufioh. They’re going to carpet bomb—”

“That’s enough,” one cop says hurriedly, but doesn’t snap. They can’t snap at him—he’s the chief’s son, you should’ve _known_. “Go with Officer Callow and the other prisoners back to the station.”

“Where are you taking Rufioh?” Horuss asks. There’s no suspicion in his gaze, but he’s worried and curious.

“Horuss,” you say again, but he still won’t look at you.

“We’ll take him to the hospital to get patched up before we put him away,” Horuss’s cop-friend replies.

“I’m going with him,” Horuss says.

That’s what does it. “I don’t want you to come!” you yell, and that startles him into looking at you with wide, guilty eyes. “Fuck you! What did you fucking _do_?”

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he turns back to the officer. “I’m coming.”

“We’ll have to cuff you.”

“Do it.”

Nobody sees Dave Strider, not even you. No one sees the shades on his face or the sword on his back or the blank expression on his face. He is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected; if you looked up the dictionary definition of “blankface”, Dave thinks it should be his picture, staring at the camera with eyes dead behind his sunglasses. It’d be cool. Rose would draw a little mustache on his upper lip and pin it to the refrigerator.

Nobody knows that Dave is invisible. The silencer sits in his pocket, pasted onto his leg by his black skinny jeans, cloaking him to the world unless an Angel decides to take a closer look. He doesn’t know that Feferi had a silencer so they’ll be keeping an eye out of invisible insurgents, but it winds up not being an issue. As the arrests are made, Dave walks straight up to the officer who retrieved SCRED and carefully removes it from its pouch on her belt, becoming the most masterful pickpocket on this garbage plateau.

Nobody knows that Dave walks away with it until he’s back at his apartment. Dirk will yell at him for going out, but Dave will nod to Rose and she will know he has it, and the relief that will show on her face will make Dave glad he took the risk.

But you don’t know that someone else will make use of the machine he dubbed Scared. Horuss keeps looking at you as they ride in the back of the police car, crammed into the back seat together, but you can’t look back. Horuss’s expression will be too worried and reassuring and loving all at once, and you can’t stomach that right now. You can’t believe what he did.

In few minutes, the car stops. Horuss hasn’t looked away from you and you know he wants to apologize and say that he only ever did it for you but you know you would kill Horuss if you had the chance. You thought he didn’t love Horuss anymore but being _in_ love with someone and loving them are two very different things, and while you lost one, you still had the other. The rage at the betrayal and the sting of your own idiocy almost hurts more than the hole in your chest.

When you finally look at Horuss, the cop in the seat in front of him quickly turns back and cuffs him to the door, while your door opens and you’re tugged out of the car. Horuss frowns, pulling against the handcuffs like he doesn’t understand, but then the door slams shut and you’re forced to turn around.

You’re not at a hospital. You at the edge of the plateau near the elevators; you can see the building in the distance that houses them. You’re in a wide area between two buildings you can’t even guess at the function of, walking to a fence and the horizon. The cop waiting at the car says, “You shouldn’t have been so stubborn, Horuss.”

“We had an agreement!” The shout is muffled and frantic. “My father said he would be safe!”

“Your father is saving what’s left of the Furthest Ring, kid.”

The fence is tall and built like prison bars. The cop leading you puts his bracelet to a keypad and there’s a clicking noise; the bars swing open. As the officer starts trying to drag you once again, you yank back with all your might, and he loses his grip on your cuffs so you begin to sprint. There’s a path behind a building that backs up to the fence, just narrow enough for you to slip through, but you don’t get even close to it before you’re hit with a stun and dragged back to the gate.

“Rufioh!” Horuss yells. You hear the car rock back and forth as you come to the edge of the plateau, still struggling, still fighting back. This is not your fucking swan song. This is not the end. Kankri Vantas died on the end of a noose with a hole in his head to paint a pretty picture of revolution. Meulin Leijon wrote his betrayal with words whispered by a maniac. Porrim Maryam and Mituna Captor were dragged away by Angels and will have their minds wiped clean. Latula Pyrope’s will has been crushed and Aranea Serket sits in her mansion, doing nothing. You are the last of the inner circle and you will not go.

The cop tries to drive you to your knees but you sidestep out of the way, still unable to get his hand away from your cuffs but you use his momentum against him to slam him towards the dropoff. He stumbles and _yanks_.

You’re both over the edge, and he lets you go.

 

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me?”

Meulin stands alone in Gareth Makara’s chapel, wringing her hands together and standing on her toes so she can get a slightly better look at the much taller man’s face. Gareth doesn’t speak, nor does he watch the man that melts out of the penumbra behind his throne. The unknown bishop walks silently, almost as if he was floating, feet hidden under his robes. He walks just past Meulin, disappearing into her shadow.

Chosen, then. But for what purpose?

Gareth rises, coming down from the dais and striding languidly past her, saying, “Follow me, kid.”

Gulping, Meulin does as she’s told. Kurloz had been too quiet when he’d brought her here at his father’s request, and now he’s nowhere to be seen, off skulking in the dark somewhere; he’s been more distant towards her ever since their breakup, though she’s certain Kurloz would do everything in his power to protect her. He loves her. Why did she ever leave him in the first place? She was safe here. The Church cared for her, even if Gareth wished to wait before officially inducting her into their hallowed halls. She understood—Kurloz had shown her little bits of things, and she’d felt it in her mind and coursing through her body. Then it would fade, but here was such a sense of _something_ that Meulin had felt very drawn to him. It was what made her stay with him to begin with.

She didn’t regret coming back. Her old friends would not have protected her, even if she took it upon herself to really start everything. Of course Meulin felt terrible about the way it had to be, but in her eyes, she had absolutely done the right thing.

_The right thing,_ she thought as she followed the Archbishop through the gardens to the gate of his estate. Following Gareth is the right thing, because Kurloz said it was, and Kurloz is smart. He knows more of the world than she does, more of this plane, more of this joke.

There are people standing by the gate. Her instincts shrilly scream at her to bolt, _run, run far away,_ but why would she? She quiets herself. She’s too flighty, Kurloz says, and while she normally isn’t the sort to change herself for the man she loves, she can see reason in wanting to appear in control. Someone who runs away is _not_ in control.

At first, when she finally stops at the gate and Gareth lays his head upon the bars and murmurs a brief prayer, Meulin thinks she’s wrong. The white suits and the symbols and the people—this can’t be right. She was safe here. The Church had feuded with the Angels for as long as there was a Canaveral and they would not give her up without a fight.

As the gates open, she finds herself walking forward, her expression frozen into the mask of confusion that had settled over her features. She does not want to go to the Angels, but they take her into their arms, cuffing her hands and holding onto her shoulders. “That’s a good girl, come easy,” one of the murmurs, brushing her hair back from her face.

“See?” Gareth says as the gates close behind Meulin. She wants to turn back and snarl at him, but her head is foggy and she’s found that she can’t turn it. All she can do is stare directly in front of her, right at the breast pocket of the Angel in front of her. “I told you she ain’t mine. I can cooperate. Now get off my fuckin’ back.”

Where’s Kurloz? Wasn’t he supposed to save her? Didn’t he promise he’d be there for her, through everything? Everything was wrong. She has never felt fear like this before, even as she stared Kankri in the face and killed him. She feels compelled. She feels helpless and distant and she cannot control her own body.

As the Archbishop turns and strides away, Meulin is pulled in the opposite direction, feeling like a hypocrite. She knows what’s ahead.

She does not want to die.

 

* * *

 

Kurloz kneels before his father, hands clenched into fists on the floor in front of him. His expression is hard and forcedly neutral, and he does not speak. His father knows why he has come.

“You know her little mutant life doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Gareth says, his tone less grandiose than when he’s performing. It’s still deep enough that it reverberates in son’s breast, but he has dulled the spark that makes him such a compelling speaker. “You were sweet on her, sure. But she couldn’t have made it. She was not holy.”

_She could have been,_ Kurloz thinks. _She should have become._

His father slumps back in his seat, blowing out a stream of air so his lips flap. “She is the vessel of the one who will bring the Reckoning. You know what an honor that is, Kurloz. You begged to be in that bitch’s shadow one final time, but that shit don’t become you. It’s big, but it’s little. We don’t wanna go with the Reckoning. You have a duty to rapture.”

Kurloz still does not speak. He does not move. Beginning to become irked, his father stands but does not move from the dais.

“It is our _time_ ,” Gareth proclaims to the empty pews before him, stretching out behind his oldest son. Gamzee lurks in the shadows to the side, unseen by his brother but perceived by this father. “It is our _revelation_! As our world spirals ever closer to entropy, here’s the part where it finally starts to come apart at the seams, where we come and we salt the earth like those now-dead _Demons_ of old. Who dares to come and lead? I do! _I_ dare and _will_ always dare, because God did not pull me out of the ether to be craven, and I am the only motherfucker left in the world with the ambition and power to make something out of the glorious _nothing_ Canaveral has given me. This place is not the world. It is _hell_ and on this _glorious fucking day_ you will assist me in freeing people from it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Though this is an AU, I gotta add nods to canon everywhere I can, fam.)
> 
> Two chapters and an epilogue left. I probably need to write about 15,000 words before I'm all done, and though that feels so close, I don't know how long it will take. I really do want to knock it out over the remainder of winter break, since this is going to be a really busy spring semester for me, but we'll just have to see how that goes. If you want to ask about progress, feel free to poke me on my blog.


	32. XXIX- Archive 413

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! After nearly four years, I'm posting the final chapters of Insurgency. I had planned to post this chapter then wait a few days to post the final chapter and epilogue, but what the hell, now that it's done I think it reads better all at once. For those of you who need a refresher before the ending, remember that I have a [summary post](http://sonicsymphony.tumblr.com/post/the-story-so-far) that should help!
> 
> Make sure you start here and not on Chapter 30 or the epilogue; I know AO3 used to be kind of weird with the emails, so make sure you're in the right place. Happy reading!

Now here we are, at the true beginning. It took quite a while to get here, but I believe it will be worth the wait—my life is quite interesting overall, though my childhood was quite lackluster. When you’re born high up, things can stay boring for as long as you like.

I spent my adolescence with the Felt. Seeing as the home I left was in the Burbs (and given my GMS level), I’m sure you’re surprised I did not choose to side with the Highbloods. I found that my aspirations differed from theirs, and I felt my plans would work better if I could be in control of the Felt. I rose through the ranks quickly, becoming inner circle faster than anyone else currently in the gang, and they weren’t the only ones who noticed my ambition.

When I was twenty, I was approached by Gareth Makara. Given my unique position as a level 11 in a world where very few people were, Gareth offered me a deal that would enhance both of our powers. I would go into the Angels, train with them, and gain their trust. Eventually, I would be appointed head of the organization—because even without the omnichip I have now, I was still smarter and fitter than anyone else alive—and I would disperse Gareth’s agenda. He would give me whatever I needed—money, housing, women—to be comfortable as long as I do not stray.

The Felt could wait. To be offered so much for doing something I considered to be easy was quite the pull. By the time I was thirty, I was a high-ranking officer, and the old Head Angel died. It was my time: I was respected, lauded, and even well-liked. I was the perfect candidate for the position, and I thought everyone knew it.

But Seymour Ampora had a legacy. Though he paled in comparison to me, his family’s history with the Angels showed that he was a man dictated by his sense of duty, and he would serve the Initiative faithfully until his death. Or perhaps he would retire, but he and I both knew that not a single Head has made it that long. He knew what he was signing up for, and even though he is definitely a man who values his own life above all else, he had too much of an ego to turn down the offer.

Those on the board believed that I was too ambitious for my own good, that my blood was too new to be worth anything. After playing the long con, they chose him over me.

Gareth was furious. His rages are legendary, and though this one was forcibly kept quiet, he killed half of his staff and most of the Dolorosa Order before he got himself under control. Seeing as I now knew the council would never accept me as a head, I disappeared from the Burbs again, becoming the first Angel to ever desert and live. Gareth was too smart to have me killed for disappointing him. We both knew we’d have uses for one another later, so he didn’t even try. I went back to the Felt, working my way to the top in a year, and he retreated back to the shadows to plan once more.

As it turned out, I never needed the Church. I never needed the Angels. I have built my own empire now, which you have inherited, and I hope you do not run my work into ruin.

 

* * *

 

It comes quietly at first: tiny, rhythmic taps that are a distant echo in the monotony. You cannot tell how long you have been waiting—minutes, hours, days?—when the sound comes. You’ve taken risks before, peeked through the tiny barred slit near the top of the door of little cell that would be dark without the strip of red light leaking in from the hall. It’s been still, with no sound save for the groaning of old pipes.

You don’t think you should risk putting your head up to look for the source of the footsteps, since Gam said no one else could know you were here, but you remember you stashed Cronus’s computer glasses in your pack. Fishing them out, you turn them on and place them on your nose. They slide down the bridge slightly, since your brother has a bigger head than you in more ways than one, and you have to fiddle with the unfamiliar operating system for a minute before finding the setting that’ll let you see through the door. By now, the footsteps are loud and certainly made by more than one person. They must be close to the room.

Scooting quietly up to the door, you watch and wait. Figures makes their way down the narrow hall, features made indistinguishable by the thick metal door in the way, but you can see the outlines of flowing robes that swish around their feet. The triangular shapes on their heads must be hats, and their sleeves shake and droop with each step, blending in with their arms in the silhouette before your eyes. Each step they take is in tandem, and by the volume of their steps you would say there must be about eight of them, but they keep coming and by the time the final person has left your sight, you have counted thirty-two.

The Dolorosa nun in the back carries a torch that you know only to be lit because of the new shadows it throws across the walls of your cell. She is the tallest and most severe, shoulders back and marching; while her sisters still stepped in time with each other and a silent beat, this woman was the only one who truly holds the posture of a soldier. Swallowing, you decide to take a risk at the last second, standing and switching your glasses to the search function as you peer out the window. You barely catch the last nun’s retreating back, two guns on each hip hidden in her black draping robes.

Ducking down and laying your back against the wall, you realize that your fentanyl has not worn off. You wouldn’t have been able to stand and sit so easily otherwise. That means you’ve only been in here a few hours at most; relief swells in your throat at the absence of pain, as you know you should be in a fair amount of it. The patches Cronus picked up for you before he left have helped the bruises on your ribs fade from deep purple to an ugly green, and you can open your previously swelled-shut eye, but you doubt they’ve done much for your knees. Hopefully when Gamzee returns, he’ll have thought to bring another fentanyl dose.

The idea makes you feel a little sick. You worked so hard to get off of fentanyl and here you are, succumbing to it again so easily. The reprieve of being up to your waist in pain makes you want to sob with relief whenever you think about it, but Kankri had recognized you were on a one-way path to overdosing and now you can see that you were abusing it before. What about now? You’re on your first patch in weeks and you already are deeply craving your second, like a junkie trying to take away the itch.

You try to remind yourself that the pain is good for you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t keep off your feet and heal. Now, though, your healing matters less than your survival; it won’t matter how fucked up your legs are if you’re dead, so you need to take whatever matters you need to in order to prevent that outcome.

Even though Kankri is gone, you feel like he’s disappointed in you, but he can shove his judgmental opinion up his martyred ass.

Swallowing the lump in your throat drags like you’ve ingested sandpaper. The only features in this cell are a small hole in the corner which you’ve assumed is used as a toilet and a metal dish next to it with a tiny faucet. It’s on the ground so it’s less like a water fountain and more like a bowl that a movie star’s pet would drink out of, and you haven’t wanted to submit to the indignity of having to drink like an animal. However, Gamzee’s been gone for longer than you’d hoped he would be, and you figure you need to drink something if you want to stay alert.

The water is clearer than you were expecting. It is warm in your mouth and has an odd metallic taste, similar to drinking out of a rusty tap in the Furthest Ring. You can stomach a few sips before you’re nauseated and have to stop, letting your head fall back against the wall. You’re not sure if the nausea’s sudden onset is from the weird angle you had to drink the water or the relief of finally having something in your stomach, but it fades quickly enough.

More footsteps in the hall—faster ones, jogging. They’re incredibly quiet but your tuned hearing picks them up, and if you have to fiddle with your glasses settings again you’ll miss whoever it is, so you peek out of the opening, trying to conceal yourself as much as you can as the person goes by the door. You get a flash of long black hair, a tattoo curling up her shoulder, and tan skin.

You’re willing to bet your crutches that Porrim is loose down here, somehow.

Here in unfamiliar, foreboding territory, you don’t want to take risks, but you find that you must take two: you slip out of the room with your bag slung against your back, leaving your rigid crutches laying against the wall. You silently make your way after her at a run, pulling on Angel training to regulate exactly how you move and how fast you approach. Before she can turn down another corridor, you reach out and grab her elbow, ready to pull her to a stop—

Faster than you’re expecting, she swings around and decks you in the face. She hits hard on the side that’s already bruised, causing you to stagger into the wall with a resounding _clang_. Porrim takes off at a dead sprint without even looking at you, pivoting left at the next intersection before you can recover your wits enough to run after her.

“Porrim!” you call. She doesn’t turn. Running feels strange when your legs are numb; you lack most of the grace Angels are renowned for, but you’re still faster than her and gaining. “Por! What the fuck, it’s _me_!” Still no reply.

The back of your neck begins to prickle as you gain on her, a tremor shooting down your spine. The sweat that breaks out on your temples is cold and not from exertion, and there’s a strange tug to your stomach that almost makes you think an Angel entered your perception. You ignore your discomfort as you finally grab her, taking both of you down. She struggles, trying to bash you with the heel of her hand but she’s frantic and you’re able to grab her wrists and pin them on either side of her head as you lean most of your weight on your hips. “It’s alright,” you whisper, leaning down closer to her face. Her eyes are blown wide with terror, but she refuses to look at you. “Porrim, Christ, what’s going on? You need to be quiet—”

She spits in your face and you make a disgusted sound, but don’t release her wrists. “You can’t have me,” she says, voice low and hard and trembling.

Por’s stare shifts to over your shoulder and you turn slightly to look. Kanaya stands at the end of the hall behind you, decked out in the same Dolorosa robes you saw earlier. She was looking at her sister but her gaze shifts to you.

You’re thrown by her eyes—you don’t tend to notice eye color, but Kanaya’s eyes are normally so dark brown they’re nearly black, but now they are a bright blue. The contrast is startling. You try to open your mouth to speak to her, to demand to know what the fuck is going on, but you find that you can’t. Your jaw won’t move. Your fingers are locked around Porrim’s wrists. Your weight leans steadily on her even though you now want to throw yourself off. You can’t look away from Kanaya as she takes a step closer, her movement silent.

“Eridan?” Porrim says like she can’t believe it. You can’t respond. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ —look at me. Eridan. Eridan, _please_!”

Your left hand is weak without your prosthetic fingers and she manages to tear out of your grasp on that side as Kanaya says, “Why are you still fighting?”

Porrim is remains pinned beneath you, but she can stretch just enough so you can see her nose and the edge of one eye. With her newly freed hand, she bends your other elbow so you fold down and Porrim can block your view of Kanaya’s approaching form, locking eyes with you.

It feels as if you’ve been dumped into sludge. Your ability to move comes back slowly, but you immediately release Porrim’s other hand and make your muscles slack so she can wriggle out from under you and pull you to your feet. “I know where to go,” Por says. “We’re almost there, but—oh _fuck_ you can’t run...” She sounds like all the hope has been squeezed from her. You try to articulate that you just ran after her, but she realizes that before you can make your molasses-slow tongue make a sound. “You were running,” she hisses and you nod slowly. It makes you dizzy. “Don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

She’s no longer gentle, yanking you along the pathway as a shiver spreads from your neck to your shoulders and disappears, dispersed by the fentanyl. She works you up to a sprint, taking you away from Kanaya and turning down another hall. To your surprise, Kanaya is at the end of this one too, but you only look at her robes. Por takes you past her, her cloak rubbing against the skin of your arm, but instead of cotton it just feels freezing. You slow down as you turn again, coming to a door with a large wheel stretched across it. Porrim drops your arm and starts turning it, making the whole hall creak and groan. Kanaya’s voice whines behind you, “Sister, please just _look_ at me!” You ignore it, unnerved.

The door clicks and Porrim shoves it open, letting in sunlight that’s so bright it blinds you. Bringing a hand up to shield yourself, you follow Por outside. There’s a walkway to this door that is framed by hedges and trees, smaller than the great draping ones from the Makara estate in the Burbs, but still a far cry from anything that belongs in the Furthest Ring. This small courtyard is surrounded by walls and a large metal gate, but you can see the smokestacks of the Belt rising above it all and behind you, the great metal plateau towers above. The door leads straight into it.

Porrim shoves the door shut and spins the wheel before taking ahold of your arm again and dragging you behind a hedge wall and into some trees. There are some small plants with sharp leaves that cut into your palms as you fall flat on your ass, Porrim crouching next to you. “I can’t believe we got out,” she says, shoving the heels of her hands into her eyes. She’s still in her Angel-issued prisoner clothes, drab gray things that brings out the twisting black of her tattoos; at some point she’d ripped the sleeves off at the shoulder. Her hair is ratty and tangled, knotted behind her like the hood of those dark Dolorosa robes.

“I don’t understand why we had to run,” you say, and it’s easier to speak now, the mental sludge you were in faded. “You were free, I got your release myself.”

“God, I was just waiting for more interrogation and a fucking _bishop_ showed up,” she says like she hadn’t heard you. “He just looked at me and I had to follow. He brought me back to the estate and I was _terrified_ , trying to figure out a way I could kill myself before I got to Gareth but the bishop took me downstairs and told me to go and holy _shit_ , we made it out, it has to be a trap…”

“Porrim,” you say, grabbing her shoulders, “ _you’re free_. I negotiated it myself.”

She looks at you for the first time since the Kanaya look-alike, lips pressed together. “The Angels said they executed you.”

“Cronus paid my bail,” you say. “I was supposed to leave the city, but instead I went to the Archbishop to get you out.”

Still breathing hard, she lets her gaze drop as she digests this. You loosen your grip on her shoulders but keep your hands there. Porrim’s face crumples for a second before she bites her lip and pulls herself together. “You came back for me,” she says. Her voice has never sounded so small.

“I thought there was a way I could get you out,” you say, almost wanting to cry. “Of course I did it. Of course I did.”

“What if you’d failed?” she asks, a bit of sharpness in her tone. “What if you’d just alerted Gareth to a deserter and he just fucking killed you? I would’ve rather faced the Angels, Eridan. I would’ve rather—” Her expression drops into one of horror. “What did you _offer him_?”

You hold up your right hand. “He wanted my prints. That’s it.”

Her face twists in bemusement. “What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It made just as much sense as ghost-Kanaya fuckin’ _haunting_ us.”

She keeps her confusion for a moment before realizing. “Oh. You’ve never been chucklevoodoo’d before, right?”

“Chucklevoodoo?” you question. “What the hell is _that_ load of poppycock?”

“The Angels aren’t the only ones capable of getting in your head,” Porrim says. “The Church is just a lot subtler about it. No one was really down there with us. Greater bishops and up can use chucklevoodoo for a lot of shit, and that includes making detainers. If you really bought my freedom… then they were just trying to freak me out.”

You try to make sure you’re getting this. “That wasn’t a person in the hall.”

Porrim shakes her head. “It was a thought. A lot of chucklevoodoo works through the eyes. You saw Kanaya’s eyes, right?”

“Wrong color.”

“Yeah. They match the person doing the chucklevoodoo. They can break into your head and put things there. One thing that made the Angels so powerful is that they aren’t susceptible to it. But _you_ were.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you say before realizing the one thing you don’t have. “Oh. The omnichip.”

“The what?”

“It’s a brain implant,” you explain. “They stick in a computer after initiation that puts you into their network and gives you instant access to any information you want on cases, people, shit like that. I guess it also keeps the clowns out.”

“Huh,” Porrim says, frowning. “It still hit you harder than it should’ve.” Like the flick of a switch, Porrim’s muted bemusement shifts back to frantic concern as she pulls out of your grip and instead cups your face in her hands, coming closer. “Eridan, did you drink the water?”

Blinking hard, you question, “ _What_?”

“Did you drink any fucking water?” Porrim repeats, hardness leaking into her tone. “Hell, did you consume _anything_ they offered you here?”

Flustered, you say, “I… uh… There was some in my cell—”

“How long ago?”

“Right before I heard you.”

She releases her grip to shove you. You stop your face from hitting the ground by throwing your hands down, getting fistfuls of leaves. It’s an odd sensation. Porrim says, “Throw up.”

Taken aback, you demand, “ _The fuck,_ Por?”

“Jam your finger down your goddamn throat and throw up _right now_ ,” she says, the venom in her tone almost covering the fear. “It probably wasn’t enough of a dose for control since that sort of thing takes _forever_ but Eridan if you don’t vomit in the next ten seconds, I will shove my fist down your throat and _make you_.”

Properly afraid now (mostly because Porrim seems so unnerved), you poke your finger in as far back as it’ll go; you gag but nothing comes up. Porrim crouches next to you, hitting you low on the back like that’ll help until your vision goes white with pain. The fentanyl is strong, but it’s been a while since you took it and you think punching a broken bone is more than it can mute. You extract your finger, squeezing your eyes shut and gritting out, “Cracked ribs, stop, stop.”

She smacks you again and you almost fall over. “The pain will help.”

The world is broken by flashes of white, the anguish ringing through your head almost audible. You are being slowly sawed into two. Why is this so important that she’s willing to break you? You beg her, “Please. Don’t.”

You push your finger back in and it finally does something: you vomit into the dirt like some homeless drunk, Porrim’s hand going from smacking to stroking your spine. Once you’re done, you wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, feeling gross, while Porrim gathers you up in her arms, practically pulling you onto her lap and hugging you softly, careful of your injured ribs.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sounding close to tears. “I remember how they’d drug the water, I’m sorry…”

Resting your cheek on her shoulder, you breathe, expression pinched as deep breaths make twinges of pain roll through you. Your face, expression scrunched, rests on one of her vine tattoos, curling under the bridge of your nose. She jolts under you, rocked to her core, and she starts to slowly move back and forth, still running her fingers over your back. It takes you too long to realize that the low noises coming from her lips are sobs.

Porrim Maryam does not show weakness. It’s probably something left over from her days with the Church—she doesn’t allow herself to look vulnerable in front of others because it’s something that’ll be abused; those nasty fuckers will take any little bit of softness and twist it until you are writhing in the palm of their hand. Belatedly, you return her embrace, arms encircling her back as you remember her on her knees in the street, staring at Kankri’s body uncomprehendingly, crying the sort of tears you think are borne of shock. This is unrestrained and terrifying and you’re not sure how to cope, especially not when she says, “I saw Lydall.”

Pursing your lips, you try to shush her, but you’ve always been terrible with crying people; it’s not like you’ve ever paid attention to how people try to console you when _you’re_ a mess. You were sort of preoccupied at the time. Porrim seeing Lydall Captor at Angel Headquarters means a variety of things:

  1. Dr. Peixes was serious about wanting to see the younger Captors. The brothers are well and properly fucked, though chances are she might only take one of them and the other will end up wiped in someone else’s hands.
  2. She’ll allow their father to fix the network in exchange for Sollux and/or Mituna. _Three days_ rings in your head, and you wonder how much time has passed since Lord English was brought down. Perhaps a day and a half, meaning soon your every movement will once again be tracked.
  3. Glenda is still a vindictive bitch that parades around her drone like a pedigree and by showing him to the Angels’ prisoners, she absolutely wanted to cause damage, even if they were already suffering enough.



You pull back from Porrim, cradling her face in your hands as she had done for you, levelly saying, “That man is dead, Porrim. It’s just his body.”

“That doesn’t make it b-better,” she sobs, the corners of her mouth turned down in an ugly grimace. She doesn’t even attempt to wipe away her tears. “I couldn’t st-stop it. He’s the reason I-I’m fucking _alive_ and I r-repaid him by leaving his sons to end up like- like- _him_.”

“It’s not your fault,” you try to console her, letting go of her face to reach for her shoulders.

She suddenly falls back on her ass in the dirt, unable to look you in the eye. Voice shaking, she finally rubs the back of her hand under her eyes, saying, “You led us into a trap, Eridan.”

Your stomach drops into the tips of your toes. Swallowing shakily, you pull back, wringing your hands together. Your voice wobbles when you say, “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t _think_!” Her angry tears are faster, hotter. “You didn’t fucking _think_ and you got me out but _left Mituna and Sollux to a fate worse than death_!” She gets up, turning her back on you and walking a few paces away as you’re left on the ground, feeling like the biggest mound of excrement on the entire planet. You didn’t want this. You _never_ wanted this, you just thought you could outsmart them, but they played you.

“I’d get them if I could,” you say, sounding like something is lodged in your throat. “I don’t hate them that much, okay? I’d sav-save them if I could, but I got you ‘cause of a _loophole_. It only w-would’ve w-worked for you and Kan.”

“I saw that a bishop came for me,” she says, still facing away from you, “and I never wanted to die so badly, I’d rather go back to whoring at Cascade than be his _ever again_ —”

Taking a few deep breaths and digging your nails into your palms, you attempt to regain control of yourself. “We should go.”

“Where?” Porrim asks hollowly, shoulders slumping.

Biting your lip, you start to think of a plan, then freeze. You got everyone into this. You shouldn’t get to choose where you go next. “That’s up to you.”

Por’s breathing is still harsh; her fingers get tangled in her hair when she tries to rake her fingers through it, and after a minute of silence and futile tugging, she abandons trying to get her hair into any degree of order. “The BHG,” she says finally. “That’s where we were supposed to meet.”

You nod silently and push yourself to your feet, stumbling a bit. There’s no pain, but it’s hard to find your balance. That isn’t a particularly good sign, but all that means is you need to grit your teeth and cover some ground before you can’t anymore.

The courtyard you’d burst out into is small, its greenery the only living plants you’d ever seen in the Furthest Ring. You hadn’t known this was here; the walls around it are so high that not even the tips of the trees make it over. A great gate bars you from the exit, solid metal instead of the twisting wrought-iron that had surrounded that Makara estate in the Burbs. The process of opening them seems the same, however. Porrim leans her forehead against the cool metal, hands splayed on either side of her head. You hear a faint whir right before she murmurs, “For thine this is the kingdom.”

_Click_. A latch within the mechanism is released, and the gate swings outward silently. Just after you step out, it shuts quickly, the locking sound just as loud. From the outside, you see the garden is disguised to look like one of the few plateau maintenance accesses spread around its base. You wonder if the Angels knew about this and think that they _had_ to; there’s no hiding something like that from your father’s omnipotent organization.

You could never properly figure out how the hell the Church had managed to hold onto the power they did, despite the prominent figures being scary as all fuck. To you they were just another gang, with their deeper pockets and religious ties being the things that kept them so in-control. What you saw today makes you question if Porrim is right to fear the Church more than the Angels—you’d always assumed that her dread was driven mostly by the veneer of childhood, making things scarier than they were, but you saw the “chucklevoodoo” bullshit, the mind control, the Church’s own fuckin’ _soldiers_ …

With two entities like the Church and the Angels constantly at each other’s throats, you wonder how Canaveral has survived this long.

You were far from the Bounty Hunters’ Guild, the journey taking you around to the other side of the plateau and onwards as dusk falls. Streetlights don’t flicker on like they normally would. The streets around you are silent, the distant echo of gunfire barely reaching your ears. It has you on edge until it finally fades away.

The Bounty Hunters’ Guild is empty. There are signs of where people had been—there are coats on the floor spread out like blankets, a cup of coffee sits cold and abandoned, two of the doors to a collector’s office are cracked open when they should be closed—but whoever was here had left. However, it seems like a decent place to rest and wait for a little while to see if someone comes looking. This was the last known location where all of you were supposed to meet, so if anyone was still alive, they’d hopefully come back here.

There isn’t any coffee left in the break room, but there’s still a gallon of water next to the coffee maker, which you and Porrim split, trying not to drink too quickly. Porrim snacks on some crackers she finds in the back of a cabinet, both of you still doing the half-ignore-awkward-silence thing. You want to get back to searching for Fef and the others before your fentanyl wears off completely, but you wait as patiently as you can as Porrim eats, your unbruised cheek pressed on the table and hands in your lap.

Soon, there’s a crackle of static and you bolt upright, turning to the door like hinges could somehow make that sound. Porrim inhales a cracker, and you turn to her as she coughs; Porrim waves a hand at you before pointing near the ceiling, where a rickety TV sits in the corner.

“I guess the network’s back up,” Porrim says faintly once she’s no longer choking. You turn back to her and she looks unnerved, like she doesn’t want to know what will happen next. On the television screen, you notice a purple group of swirls: the Church broadcast symbol.

On the screen is footage from the Burbs. It’s likely just an image from how still it is: it displays an empty space between two buildings you recognize. It takes too long for you to put a name to the place, because normally, there is a glistening façade that looks like a cathedral but is actually a skyscraper.

You shoot out of your seat, bracing your hands on the table and leaning forward to get a better look at the TV, squinting. “Where the fuck is Angel headquarters?”

“Is that where it’s supposed to be?” Porrim asks.

“Look!” you exclaim, pointing. “Right there. The whole building’s just fuckin’ _gone_!”

The shot stays silently on the great absence. You don’t understand. There isn’t even any rubble.

“It begins as foretold,” says a voice you will never forget, now that you’ve heard it in person. The deep rumble of the Archbishop’s voice is not done appropriate justice by microphone; the technology makes it a baritone rather than a bass sound. What comes from the television is menace. What you saw and heard hours ago was primal fear deep in your gut.

You know which was worse.

“Above and below, we were all creatures of _greed_. In the Furthest Ring, you rotted. You starved and slaved and hacked each other to pieces. You thought only of above, too stupid to realize it was not the bucks you needed to serve. In the Burbs, you wasted. Wasted time, wasted power, wasted away. Those beneath were beneath you, as your physicality had to parallel your mind, and you were also stupid. So motherfuckin’ _stupid_ , all of you miserable fucks. You didn’t study as I did. I tried to get your understanding to flick on, but y’all didn’t care. Some rose. Some pushed back, but you are just flesh. Even with all your fuckin’ posturing and winding words—”

The picture changes. Glenda Peixes lays in the street, expression blank, suit torn open, stomach red and punctured with holes.

“—but you still _die_.”

“Fucking Christ,” you mutter, fists clenching at your sides. Porrim is silent, and you can’t turn to see her expression.

“As most die in the old world, some will come to the new in godly tidings,” Gareth Makara continues. “The scripture was always riddled with all these inconsistencies, but after years— _years_ of the same bullshit—I found how to call the Reckoning. My people are loyal to God. They began how He’d want it: taking the Angels out of the world.”

The screen flashes again, the video feed now showing the hospital in the Burbs where Fef’s mother did her life’s work. A nurse walks out of the revolving door out front, completely oblivious to being filmed. “You saw the results before,” Gareth says. “Here’s the reality.”

A frame later, the building is gone like it was never there. You blink a few times, thinking that you must’ve missed something as your lips part in disbelief. The lot sits empty, not a trace of the hospital left, nor the people inside of it.

“I finally uncovered what He wanted us to find. It took centuries, but I found it at the epicenter of the first flame of Reckoning. More were supposed to come, but never did; then God came to me to show its purpose, and gave me the tools to continue His work. I am His eyes in the world; I am His hands. ‘Fear not; I am the first and the last: I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.’ I was foretold for thousands of years. My glorious motherfuckin’ purpose comes to glean, but like our God, I wanted to give y’all a chance. Pray. Repent. The Burbs and the Furthest Ring will soon become one as my Church disperses your fuckin’ justice. If you’re not caught in our Reckoning, we will come for you in our rapture, and it will be bloodier. Make your choices. They’ll be your last.”

The TV screen is blank once more.

You turn to Porrim. “Was most of that gibberish to you,” you ask, “or am I missing something here?”

Por is shaking her head slowly.

Pointing at the television, you demand, “Was it always part of his fuckin’ repertoire to end with total vaporization of buildings, or is this new? What’s his endgame here? Kill everyone? Send them to— to—to who fuckin’ _knows_ where?!”

“They weren’t vaporized,” Porrim says. “They got moved.”

Turning around completely, you take a step towards her only for a dull pain to rock your knee. It’s not enough to make you collapse, but you brace your hand on the desk anyway, knowing that the fentanyl was starting to wear off. Since this was your first dose in a while you should have more time, but from here the countdown would begin. “How do you know that?”

Pressing the heel of her hand into her forehead, Porrim says, “I don’t want to think about—”

“Por, this sounds important—”

“I only lived this long because when I left, I _shut the fuck up_.”

“Does it really matter now?” you snarl.

Porrim looks like she wants to hit something; it’s the expression she gets when she’s holding back tears. “Mituna. Sollux. There really _is_ no chance for them now.”

Your breath leaves you in a slow exhale. You didn’t care about either of the twerps at all, but to Por, they were family. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “This… whatever this is, it’s probably better for them than what the Angels were doing.”

Por pushes the heels of her hands into her forehead, her fingers threading into her hair. She lets out one heavy chuckle. “Sure.”

Text pops up in your vision and you flinch back before realizing it’s being displayed on your computer glasses. Seeing the sender makes you blink hard. You let a breath out through your nose and sit on the desk, giving Porrim a few moments to collect herself. She knows you won’t budge—you’ve always been a nosy fuck, as she sometimes liked to remind you—and even though she’s exhausted, she has to realize the Church will come for her regardless of what shit she spews now.

\--tentacleTherapist [ TT ] started pestering caligulasAquarium [ CA ]--

TT: Hello? Are you there?

TT: I’m taking a real risk here, Ampora. It better be you.

CA: no im fuckin strider

CA: a course its me

TT: I could’ve lived without that detail of my brother’s personal life.

CA: youre fuckin gross you knoww that lalonde

TT: Your opinion of me doesn’t particularly matter right now, does it? We have many more things to be preoccupied with right now.

CA: hey youre the one wwho made it like that but wwhatevver

CA: the hell are you messaging me for

TT: You are the only one who’s messaged me back besides Jade. I heard you were in Angel custody.

CA: yeah wwell i got out

CA: por’s here too

TT: Porrim Maryam?

CA: yeah

TT: And Kanaya?

CA: dont knoww

TT: Fuck.

CA: yeah

CA: you wwanna enlighten me about makaras crazy message or are you just as fuckin stupefied here

TT: What message? I’m in the middle of something important.

CA: wwoww wwhat a thing to miss

CA: basically all you need to knoww is lay loww cause makara is gonna start makin buildings disappear and killin people for god and blah blah blah psychotic church bee-ess

TT: Oh I already knew it started, good to know you’re late to the program, as always.

CA: fuck you too

TT: Do you have any idea where the others are?

CA: if i did do you really think id be sittin on my ass chattin wwith you or do you think id be out there lookin for them

CA: right noww im just hangin out wwhere wwe wwere supposed to meet before the angels mucked it all up

TT: The BHG?

CA: ugh did kan blab our hideout to you

TT: We’ll be there soon.

CA: WWE

CA: wwe WWHO lalonde

\--tentacleTherapist [ TT ] ceased pestering caligulasAquarium [ CA ]--

CA: oh you fuckin BITCH

Scowling as you close out of the conversation, you find Porrim staring at you, eyebrows raised. “The voice you use for dictation is really weird.”

Your frown deepens. “Shut it, Por. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know any specifics,” Porrim says. “I’ve been out of there for over a decade. But I do know that the Archbishop was always looking for something, and it had to do with that ‘first flame of Reckoning’ garbage.”

“So it was a weapon?” you say. “And he found it?”

Porrim huffs. “I don’t fucking know, Eridan. I always thought it was bullshit, like everything else to come out of his mouth.”

You throw an arm out toward the TV, starting to get pissed. You don’t know where the rage is coming from, but you think you’ve earned some. “Well this obviously isn’t! He makes buildings disappear! How the fuck? Are they still there? Is it like one big silencer?”

“Stop yelling at me!” Porrim says. “I don’t know! Put a fucking lid on it, Eridan, you getting pissed off is getting us nowhere!”

Your face feels hot. “Get used to it! It’s not like I have any access to my meds!” The realization hits you as soon as you say it. You swallow hard, trying to force yourself to calm down.

Porrim holds herself in check too. She raises a hand to run it through her hair, then remembers how tangled it is and puts her hand back at her side. “So you’re off Serenity. Again.”

Pursing your lips, you nod. “It’s not like I wanna be.”

“Fuck.” Porrim sighs. “How long has it been since..?”

“A few days,” you recall. “Not long enough for me to get bad. Hey, at least I’ll probably be dead before I can get to the point where start _getting_ really unstable.”

Por sits next to you on the desk, leaving a couple of inches between you. She fiddles with her nails as you kick your feet slightly, trying to monitor the feeling coming back into your legs. After a few minutes, she says, “I remember a story the older nuns told, from before the war. They weren’t alive to see it, of course, but it’d been passed down; it was basically scripture. Apparently, there was a meteor.”

“What’s a meteor?” you ask.

“Like a shooting star,” Porrim says. “They normally burn up in the atmosphere, but this one hit, and it’s said that it delivered a message from God. Other nuns—ones that weren’t so dedicated to the Church—said it was just the first bomb strike of the war. Makara probably just name-dropped it to send a message. He’ll burn the world down himself, God’s will or not.”

You wait, wondering if Rose will find you before the Archbishop winks you out of existence. It’s stale in the small room with no A/C, so you hop off the desk to crack the door only to have your legs give out; you brace your hands on the desk and grit your teeth at the unexpected pain. (You stupid fuck, you knew the fentanyl was wearing off. You probably would’ve made it to the door if you’d been careful.) Porrim helps you back up wordlessly. Before she can say anything, you ask, “Can you open the door a bit? It’s stuffy in here.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, doing just that. Now it’ll be easier to hear if anyone approaches, plus the breeze is nice. You’re close enough to the sea that it carries a little salt with it. You wonder what your mother would think of all this—the Church finally going nuts, the revolts, your father vanishing mysteriously after trying to bring you into I&A. It’s hard to know what opinions she’d hold, because unlike your father, she wasn’t one to talk politics at the dinner table. Sure, she was probably just like every other buck up there, but you can’t help but feel that being out on the ocean all the time must’ve given her some perspective. It was a whole other world out there, no matter how polluted and sparse the landscape was.

Soon after it was cracked, the front door flies open to hit the wall behind it, and it’s not Lalonde at the threshold. There’s a gun up and pointed at you, three figures framed behind it, and before your Angel instincts can kick in and tell you to disarm whoever-the-fuck, your eyes glance up.

Your voice is small. “ _Fef_.”

Dropping the gun so it clatters to the ground, Fef is there, arms wrapped tightly around your neck. You hold her to you, your grip around her waist suffocating, and it hurts to have her this close but you don’t care, you _can’t_ care because she’s here, she made it back here, back to you—

“Oh my God,” she’s saying, voice in pieces and taking in air in large gulps. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

You laugh a little, face buried in the crook of her neck. She’s _here_.

Eventually, you have to let go. The Maryam-Vantas reunion is still in full-force next to you, the three of them all tangled up like Porrim’s hair, so you give yourself another minute. Fef cups your face in her hands, brushing her thumb under your bruised eye. You realize she’s crying, her hands jolting slightly where she’s cradling your face and tears sliding down her freckled cheeks. You smile slightly, reaching over to wipe them away. “You dreaded seeing me that much, huh?”

“Shut up,” she says, taking gasping breaths. “How—how did you—?”

“Got really lucky,” you say, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Now that you’ve gotten used to her shorter hair, you think it’s just as beautiful as when it was long. She resembles her mother less this way; you remember how Glenda looked on the TV, bloody and dead in the street, and you move your arms around her waist to pull her back in.

Fef leans into you, but doesn’t move her head to the side. With her hands shaky but firmly gripping fistfuls of hair at the back of your head, she pushes her mouth to yours, and you make a very inelegant noise. Your lips don’t line up quite right and you hardly react before she pulls away, but you won’t let her go with that disaster; you place your good hand at the back of her neck and kiss her, noses brushing slightly, this time aligned properly. You can taste the salt from her tears, overpowering anything else. You’re dead, you decide. You’re dead and you somehow ended up in heaven with Fef and in your dreams, she loves you.

“I thought you were gone,” she whispers, eyes still closed.

You shake your head but she can’t see that. You’re close enough that the tip of your nose catches hers, and her eyes blink open at the contact. You smile. “Without you? Never.”

 

* * *

 

After catching up with everyone, you try to get a new game plan. Despite evidence showing you lead people into traps, you feel like people would benefit from your input. You try to interject with ideas every once in a while. Whenever you start to go on for too long, Fef squeezes your hand, and you get to a stopping point and shut up.

Stupidly, you’re not one-hundred percent paying attention to what’s going on, because you’re hung up on Fef’s sudden attitude adjustment. You wonder if it was just elation at your surprisingly alive state; though you can’t conceptualize why anyone would be that happy to see you (especially after what happened in the sewer), it’s been you and Fef since the start. She wasn’t in love with you: it was always you with a stupid unrequited crush that only got bigger as you aged. Fef wanted to be close to you, but she never thought that was enough to be in love with you.

You need to talk to her, ask her what the hell changed while you were in lockup. Did she find facial bruising attractive? Did she think you were dead and have a necrophilia kink you didn’t know about? What change in perspective made her want to lock lips with you?

“Fourth watch sound good, Eridan?”

“Yeah,” you reply, having no idea what you just condoned. “Sure.”

You’re getting some pretty skeptical looks, but you decide to ignore them and stand. Your knees shake, but you’re expecting the pain this time so they don’t buckle. Fef pops up, looping an arm around your waist to steady you. “We’ll be in one of the collector rooms, wake me in two hours.”

The middle room is the one Rufioh shared with another collector who worked a different shift. On the way in, Fef grabbed a coat from the floor to use as a blanket, like those before her had. She left the gun she’d pointed at you earlier with Karkat, who you had to assume was on first watch. Fef had taken it earlier, she explained, from the mother she’d killed.

Of all the things you’d expected to hear from her, that was not one of them. She’d kept quiet through it, let Kanaya explain Pisces before Porrim explained the Makara Shitshow Extravaganza. It’d taken a while for everyone to get up-to-date on what had happened, even though you were only separated for about a day.

You manage to tear the cushion off one of the shitty client chairs to use as a pillow. It smells musty and dust puffs up when you hit it, but you can’t afford to be picky. “So,” you say conversationally from your spot lounging on the floor, “what’s the plan?”

Fef gives you an exasperated look from where she’s rifling through Rufioh’s desk. “You really weren’t listening.”

“Hey, I heard most of it,” you defend. “I just… lack some info on our next move.”

She narrows her eyes, closing a drawer. “We’re going to stay here for another ten hours and wait for Rose, with someone taking watch every two. If she’s not here by dawn, we’ll head back to Rufioh’s place and check to see if anyone made it back from that whole mess. At least Tavros should still be there. We’ll play it by ear after that.”

_And then what? Run until we die?_ You don’t say it; you’re still too happy about seeing her again.

Fef comes to sit next to you, dumping anything useful she can find on the ground. She has a lighter, some batteries, a pen, and a $10 gift card to an e-cig shop that’s probably been used already. Not many spoils, but something.

You open your mouth to ask her what the hell made her kiss you earlier but before you can speak, she lays down next to you, then wraps her hand around your wrist and tugs. Swallowing your questions, you join her, scooting back into her as she wraps an arm around your waist and you lay your arm on top of hers, linking your fingers. You can’t ask what’s going on right now and break whatever tenuous thing has just moved up another step; if you’re not dead tomorrow, there will be time to talk then.

It’s kind of awkward, having to yank the too-short coat over you as you try to share a “pillow” too small for one person. It’s been more than a day since either of you have slept; even though your body is tired, you’re too keyed up to get any sleep. You wait for a while, hoping that Fef’s breathing will even out, but it doesn’t.

You’re still listening to her when you finally drift off.


	33. XXX- Archive 612

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you're on the right chapter! Chapters 29, 30, and the epilogue were all posted at once, so make sure you start at 29! (This is Chapter 30.)

Many years ago, when the remnants of Old America were still called the United States, there was a crisis. A large meteor was on a direct collision course with the Earth after slipping through a gravitational keyhole months before. As it was coming from the direction of the sun, it was very hard to detect until the meteor was nearly upon them. The rock was big enough that no matter where on the planet it hit, it would wipe out nearly all life, just as a meteor millions of years ago had killed off the old dominant species: sentient lizards called dinosaurs. Of course, by this time, technology had progressed far enough that there was a plan for this in place, and when the meteor was detected, it was four days away. A missile was launched at it, to break it up. After hitting its mark, the meteor split into fragments, one of which had accelerated and was still heading for Earth.

Instead of days, there were six hours to stop this atrocity—for it still has killing potential, though it would probably take out a mere continent rather than the entire planet. With hours left, another special missile was launched, intended to fragment it further.

It missed.

The meteor impacted the heart of the continent, about halfway between Canaveral and Pasadena but farther north. The country was leveled. Some people had already fled the countries near the impact site, going to other continents that were willing to take in refugees, and a private company had an idea. You see, the one thing that Houston, Pasadena, and Canaveral had in common during those times is that they were all space ports. Large ships housing hundreds of people—people who paid a lot of money for the opportunity—were launched into orbit for a few months, with the addition of a ship from a place called Huntsville, and when other countries offered them docking space, those in charge refused. However, the people on the Huntsville ship attempted a mutiny, and rather than have their plans foiled, the captain of the vessel chose to crash the ship into the ocean.

The Earth was shrouded in soot. Those on the ships watched the surface in horror. However, within a few days, the clouds began to disperse. People thought this was strange, as there had been asteroids before this one and they tended to cause mass extinction events, but it turned out that humanity was being resourceful. They vacuumed the atmosphere as much as they could, jettisoning clouds upon clouds into the empty space around them, but not in the direction of their precious sun and out of the atmosphere and after weeks the Earth was revealed once more. It was much less green than it used to be, but humanity was alive and they had a plan.

When the other three ships returned to their respective cities, they found the land in ruin. No one was left alive in any of the population hubs. Contact with those outside the United States was forbidden, but those controlling the populace knew that world leaders saw the ships come down and wanted to send aid. This, once again, was rejected. Countries threatened to invade and help by force because at this point, they knew people were being held against their wills.

The leaders were smart, though. They said that the steel bunkers that housed nuclear bombs were not damaged, and they were willing to use them. Multiple large explosions and associated radioactive fallout were faked in the wasteland, and the world watched. This is the closest Canaveral ever came to a real war; the outside world backed off, even though those threatening were not smart enough to know how to access these bombs. It was the world’s biggest bluff.

History was revised, not just by the leaders, but also by rebels. It was a way to slander the folks in power: convince the public of war crimes, and you had your own willing soldiers. The main perpetrator of this first uprising was a woman by the name of Gemina Captor. She spread her own brand of insurgency by convincing people of a reality that never existed, and it’s amazing how well it stuck. Common people at this point in time knew nothing of asteroids—it was simply a word for the thing that could have killed their ancestors. But war? War was forced sterilization. War was a caste system. War was being beaten in the street for the audacity of making eye contact with someone better than you. People knew more of war than they knew of space, so they took to Captor’s cry with vigor. She got many people killed, herself included.

The war rhetoric turned out to be useful to the leaders as well. Now, if you go to the wall on the first of the month, you will see senior Angels with blowtorches frying the earth so anyone who gazes upon that wasteland will think the world is still dead. That there’s no chance of a comeback, no chance of ever making peace with the powers that we supposedly “beat”. The rest of the world has moved on and we are left behind, a punchline in a long, dark piece of humor. Descendants of the insane people who decided to send desperate families to orbit still hold the power that their ancestors promised.

I know what you are thinking. All of this sounds a lot more far-fetched than a simple war; a war breaking out involving one of the most war-driven countries in the world is believable.

There was no war. We are our own saboteurs.

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time, there was a girl who felt useless. She saw her friends speaking loudly and doing great things while she sat and watched their slow-moving success with awe and envy. The loudest of the bunch was also the smartest, and she loved him enough to want to make him proud. One day, she decided she had enough of waiting, and she wanted to make a difference with her own hands, so she made up a plan to seduce the eldest son to the Archbishop and access his power.

But the clown’s power was poison, and he whispered to her, invading her thoughts and her dreams. Though he did not think she had any ill-will toward him, he knew who her friends were, and he wanted to get her away from them, because they would just get her killed. As the pair grew closer and almost in love, the girl was not sure who was playing whom. She cut it off but still heard his voice in her head; he was not ready to let her go. The fire in her grew and she became bitter, knowing her friends’ work was incredibly important and they were not moving fast enough, and the smart, charismatic leader did not understand the amount of pull he garnered, so he was not using it correctly.

She decided to use that power for him, and she never figured out if it was the Church’s words or her own that sealed the martyr’s fate.

So she ran, knowing that she would never be safe among her old friends, but victorious because she had created what she meant to. She went back to the Church and was chosen for a purpose she did not want, becoming a vessel to a bishop hiding in her shadow. She was given to the Angels and brought the bishop with her, invisible to others, but she could feel him writhing inside of her. Once she was thrown into a cell and was awaiting interrogation and assimilation, she felt the presence slip away, and she knew she was doomed.

The bishop swam from shadow to shadow until he reached the head Angel’s office. He used the handprint taken from the oblivious son to unlock his father’s door, and then he had access to the computer he needed. The first half of the program had already been installed, hundreds of years ago, just days before the announcement of a meteor, and now with the rest of the program in the bishop’s possession, he could create union.

And that’s how the Reckoning started: the great game ran.

 

* * *

 

When Karkat wakes you up for the second watch, Eridan insists on coming to sit with you. He keeps rubbing at his eyes with the hand you’re not loosely holding—his bad hand, lacking the finger prosthetics you’d just gotten used to—but every time you try to send him back to bed, he shakes his head.

“I want…” he finally says, still rubbing at his face. “I want to talk. About earlier.”

You sigh. You know what he wants from this conversation, but you play coy. “About what earlier?”

“When you kissed me,” he says flatly.

Your stomach drops. You were expecting the confrontation, but not in that tone. He might just be overtired, but you can’t help feeling bad about how you’d just sprung that kiss on him; it could’ve hurt him more than made him happy. “I’m sorry,” you say.

As you gather your thoughts to continue, you barely hear him whisper, “Fuck,” under his breath. The quirk of his lips is acrimonious. “Yeah, this is why I was trying to put this talk off. I knew you’d be sorry.”

Blinking hard, you say, “Eridan, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he says softly. Any anger that was coloring his tone is gone, but he still sounds bitter. “You would’ve dressed it up more. It was just the moment. I get it.”

“I love you,” you say. Eridan takes a shuddering breath, running a hand back through his hair. He tries to let go of your hand, but you just tighten your grip. “No, listen to me. I _love_ you. You know that. You’re my best friend and… and even if you love me a little differently, that doesn’t mean I’m mismatched with you. I love how close we are, and when you were _gone_ , I kept thinking about what a moron I was for not seeing how much I loved you. Even though I feel like this is going to be work if we want to make it long-term, I know that I _do_ want to try and not just stagnate because I’m afraid of fucking this up.” You start to feel alarmed. “Eridan, we can’t ruin our friendship with this. It’s the most important thing in my life, so even if this goes wrong, I want—”

“Fef,” Eridan interrupts, wry, “you’re thinking way too far into the future here. We’re being fucking _raptured_.  If we’re leftover, we’re probably gonna get carpet-bombed. We’re going to be dead within the week, most likely, and you’re thinking about our long-term relationship.”

“Well, I’ve always been the optimist between us,” you say, laughing a little. He’s partially right—there’s a good chance of dying by this time next week—but he’s always been too morose for his own good. “Wow, Eridan, you sure know how to seduce a girl with all your ‘here comes the rapture’ talk.”

“You know it’s true,” he says, but he doesn’t sound dour. Instead of giving you a chance to reply, he kisses you. It’s better than your reunion, despite your emotions not riding as high. When he pulls back, he keeps his face close to yours. “We’ll deal with every new challenge as it comes up,” he says, “but for now…”

You’re almost done with your watch when the cracked-open door shifts. Porrim, Kanaya, and Karkat are passed out in the left collector room as far as you know, but even if they are awake, they couldn’t have gone outside without you noticing. Eridan had dozed off about half an hour ago, his head on your lap and his computer glasses hanging off your knee. The door doesn’t open all the way, so it could’ve easily just been the wind, but your fingers wrap around the grip of the gun next to you.

Eridan sits up before your gun is firmly leveled at the doorway. Squinting, you try to discern if anyone truly entered the room.

“Shoot,” Eridan snaps before you can figure it out.

You hesitate just long enough for two disembodied voices to shout, “Don’t!” and drawl, “Nah.”

After you blink, Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider are standing in front of you, Dave with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Do Angels have bionic eyes?” Dave asks. You can’t see if he’s looking at Eridan because of his dark shades, but you have a feeling that Eridan is being stared at. “Cause damn dude, silencers are good shit.”

Eridan huffs. “It’s Angel tech, of course I’ve been taught to see traces of it. Where the hell’d you get it?”

Dave snorts. “Bro’s on the Security Council, remember? Or I guess he was, before all this.”

“Right now,” Rose cuts in, “he’s on his way to Pasadena to rendezvous with my mother. And we need to go.”

 

* * *

 

Fef wakes everyone and you gather in Rufioh’s old office. You sit in a circle, Dave next to Rose, Kanaya on her other side, then Porrim, Karkat, you, and Fef. The first thing that Rose does once you’re seated is take a round, white ball the size of her first out of her backpack. She squeezes it once, and though the surface doesn’t give, a warm light begins to glow from inside of it.

Rose opens her mouth to speak, but you beat her to it. “So that’s it then?”

She gives you a withering look. “Must you always have the first word?” You tilt your chin up a bit, and she sighs. “Yes, this is the ‘cue ball’.” Rose quirks her fingers in air-quotes. “It’s a transmitter and receiver that allows communication outside of Canaveral’s very protected, confining network, created by a man called Jake Harley when he sent agents to Pasadena half a century ago.”

“The Skaia Foundation,” Fef says, and you glance over at her. Rose raises an elegant eyebrow, and Fef explains, “She messaged me when no one else would respond, closer to Kankri’s death. She wanted to talk to Karkat and said some ridiculous things about plans and people dying, and she said she was a part of the Skaia Foundation.”

Rose nods. “Did she elaborate?” Fef shakes her head. Rose continues, “Dr. Harley abandoned the project three decades ago when most of his agents were found and killed, but several survived, including my mother’s parents. Our families were still very dedicated to ending the American regimes, especially since they were now stuck in them. Eight years ago, Dr. Harley’s granddaughter rediscovered us, and we’ve been working with her and the rest of the Foundation to try and get everyone out of here.”

“The old mastermind hasn’t been much of a help,” Dave says. Leaning down to Fef, he cups a hand over his mouth and loudly hisses, “Dementia,” pointing at the side of his head.

“So is this ‘Skaia’ group making buildings disappear?” you question.

Rose frowns slightly. “No. That’s the Church.”

“Shit’s getting whack up there,” Dave says. “They’ll be here soon, so we shouldn’t hang around here too much longer.”

“So they’re Reckoning?” Porrim’s voice is low and rough. “Making shit disappear?”

“Yeah,” Dave affirms. “Bro said they got access to Angel HQ and that’s what started it. They must’ve had some pretty nasty tech in there.”

You scoff. “Nothing that makes things truly _vanish_. From what I understand, this isn’t just a big silencer. Whole buildings are gone!”

_My father is gone,_ you think. Part of you says good riddance, but the other part has had a lot of time to think about the last message he sent you: _it seems you have misplaced a rifle._ If he hadn’t sent that, Angels could’ve come for you all and you would’ve been caught off-guard. No, he wasn’t gloating. He was warning you.

Or maybe he _was_ just gloating. You’ll never know, now that he’s gone.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rose says, but you can’t help but think that it does. “We can talk about this for hours once we’re free of this place. The Burbs are almost all gone, so he’ll start sending emissaries to the Furthest Ring. Down here, we won’t be a part of the Reckoning.”

“We’ll be raptured,” Porrim says tone hollow.

Rose’s lips are in a grim line. “Yes.”

“I’d rather be carpet-bombed,” Porrim says.

Kanaya places a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “What will this entail?”

Rose says, “He’ll torch the place, murder people in the streets, and purge until no one is left except followers of the Church.” She turns to Porrim. “Am I correct?”

“Yeah,” she says flatly. “At least a thorough bombing would be quick.”

“We’ll be gone before that happens,” Rose says confidently, standing. “Months ago, when they were reeling from Calisa Ampora’s death and there were no ocean patrols for a short time, the Foundation took the opportunity to sneak in a boat.”

“A boat,” you deadpan. “Great.”

Not acknowledging you, Rose continues, “It has been hiding underwater near a jetty about a mile offshore, but within the patrol route. Jade is working on getting it to the beach right now, and we must be there to meet it.”

“And then what?” Karkat asks. “The ocean’s fucking huge.”

“Jade has reassured me that they have meticulously planned this, and there was enough food and fuel onboard for ten people to make it to them. Our numbers are slightly smaller now, but we can still get out of here.”

“And leave everyone else to die?” Fef says.

Rose sighs, looking despondent. “We do what me must.”

“That’s bullshit,” Fef says, getting to her feet to match Rose’s stare.

“There’s nothing else we can do here,” Rose says. “Canaveral will kill itself; it already has been for days, years even, if we talk about a slower decline. All but a few protesters are dead. Most civilians who wanted no part of this fled to Derse for sanctuary, and they are dead. The remaining bucks are disappearing completely. We need to leave while we have the opportunity; I can assure you that there will not be another.”

It’s a little cruel, but true. Canaveral has been doomed for years. There is nothing else you can do for those who remain except die, and hope that Houston and Pasadena can one day be liberated. “Fef,” you say softly, “she’s right.”

Fef doesn’t look at you. “If there really _are_ other people and governments out there,” she says, “why have they left us here? Why have they let us exist in our dictatorship bubble and let us think we were alone?”

“Threats,” Dave says. “We’ve always claimed we have leftover nukes from the war. No one wants to test it for our teeny tiny population.”

“That’s why the Skaia Foundation stepped in,” Rose says. “They aren’t under government jurisdiction. They will attempt to grant us asylum under some country’s banner, but they have their own sovereign territory. Albeit it’s a very small island, but we’ll be allowed to stay there as refugees until we can work it out with the other governments.”

“And then what?” Karkat demands. “And then we hang out there drinking fruity cocktails and hope Houston and Pasadena don’t end up like here?”

“No,” Rose says. “And then we do whatever we can to get the world to listen to us. We can save people by leaving. If we stay, we’ll just die.”

The room is quiet after that. Fef still seems unhappy, but she helps you to your feet after you extend a hand, supporting your weight as you drape an arm around her shoulders. If you’re careful, your legs should hold you up, but you have to be very aware of every twitch of your knees while not putting too much strain on your healing ribs. The patches Cronus picked up for you have done wonders, but you probably need another day or two before they’re healed.

A thought occurs to you. Turning to Rose, you say, “You said the other Strider was heading to Pasadena.”

“Yes,” Rose says, already seeming to know what you want. “I don’t know if anyone else made it. I’m sorry.”

You give a slight nod, scowling. Cro’s a bastard, but he’s your brother; you hope he made it out of here before everything completely went to shit.

Everyone heads back to the main room. The door to the BHG remains open, and you smell a hint of smoke in the air outside. You’re the only one with any tangible belongings—you still have the backpack you snagged from Cro’s place—but when you reveal you have a second handgun, a few try to insist that someone else should take it, since Fef will be helping you walk. Rose already has a handgun holstered at her hip and Dave has a large knife strapped across his back that he insists is called a sword, and he won’t let anyone else touch it. Porrim is the only other person here who has had formal gun training, so she gets Glenda’s pistol, but you are adamant about getting to keep your brother’s old handgun. “I’m a better shot one-handed than any of you with two.”

Kanaya looks at you warily. “After what you did yesterday…”

“I’m not leading here,” you snap, refusing to feel shame. “I know I fucked up. Believe me, I know. But that doesn’t affect my aim, and I may be a sniper, but I’ve had excessive pistol training too. Let me keep  the gun.”

Kan opens her mouth to continue arguing, but Porrim beats her. “Just let him have it.”

You only get to feel smug for a moment. Rose pushes the door to the BHG all the way open before turning about around to you. “Alright,” Rose says, giving one sharp clap of her hands. “No more stagnating. We need to move.”

 

* * *

 

Somewhere between Canaveral and Pasadena, a train chugs along. The eldest Strider thinks about seeing Roxy again for the first time in over ten years. He was young when they made the call to send him and the kids to Canaveral; Rose and Dave were much younger. Dirk wonders if Roxy will still be the sharpest tool in the arsenal, if she’ll still be able to put on the persona of a bubbly Pasadenan airhead as easy as blinking, if she still drinks too much, too fast, like she’s trapped underwater and the liquid in the bottle is an oxygen tank. He wonders what it will be like for them, now that the cue ball—the only way they can communicate to the world outside—is gone forever.

A few seats down, Cronus Ampora is grimacing and tapping out a beat on his knee with his fingers. It’s erratic, not much rhythm to it, and he wishes there were windows on this train. He’s always thought the wasteland that surrounded Canaveral had poetry to it, and he thinks it would be a good form of inspiration for his music. If he wanted to get his career off the ground, he needed to provide something fresh and new. Though destruction is a common theme, Pasadena is known as the most sheltered of the cities, so Cronus believes he’ll be valued for the shit he’s seen. He purposely avoids thoughts of Eridan, because if he doesn’t think about the state of the place he left behind, his little brother will always be alive in his mind.

In the bathroom, Aranea Serket is smoking an e-cigarette. She’s gone through two and a half filters so far. Aranea has never felt more alone, even though she did not start this journey by herself. Out of the leadership of Kankri Vantas’s pipe dream, she is the last. When Kankri died, she knew this would not end well. She believed in him more than anyone else combined, and once his strong leadership was extinguished, she knew they wouldn’t last longer. The rest of them began to fall like shooting stars, brightening in their rage but fizzling out as they were not strong enough to fight back. No one was, including Aranea. So she ran.

Leaning against the wall near the back of the train car, Meenah tries not to listen to her girlfriend’s needy inhales from inside the bathroom. She’d seen how desperate her mother had gotten after the last meeting of the Security Council, when she promised a deployment of Pisces that they both knew was impossible. Once Glenda left the mansion, Meenah knew that she would not be coming back. Meenah was practical but impulsive, and she wasn’t sure there was anything in this house worth saving, so before the Church could come for it, she’d set fire to the grandiose drapes framing the story-tall windows in the main hall and left it to burn, taking only a gun, her tablet, her favorite leather jacket, and a big bag of chips.

Aranea had been waiting for her in the driveway, watching the flames through the windows with wide eyes. She must’ve slipped inside the gate when her mother drove out. Meenah raised her eyebrows and jutted out a hip, the blazing heat at her back unbelievably hot with only one room burning so far, and Aranea told her, “We need to leave the city.”

It normally took months to get clearance, but using the name Peixes could get them anything in the Burbs, and hopefully out of it. “Aight.”

 

* * *

 

Damara Megido is sick of being a powerful pawn.

She started out as a weak one and found it favorable. The sex was fine most of the time, even if she had to take up that mantle much too early; it helped her family, and even if it made something within her snarl when her mother simply turned around and spent money on heroin, Aradia could get a couple of skirts with no holes in them, so everything was worth it.

The fire inside of her that made her hate her mother most days did not go unnoticed. Scratch picked her up when she was fifteen because he recognized her name, but kept her because he recognized something in her that no one else did. She was a tool that could be cultivated and unleashed. He never once thought that she would turn on him. He thought he ran the city. She knew who really did.

On every corner and in every establishment, Lord English had eyes. The Angels were the true watchers, and though Damara hated them, she knew that one day she would have to kill Scratch for them, because their hold on the world was too powerful to be denied. Watching Scratch die had felt liberating, but she knew she had just taken on a new set of shackles. When the order came for her to take the Felt and create a haven for refugees at Derse, she did as she was told. Damara knew they would use it as a tool to kill; she didn’t particularly care until her sister wouldn’t leave.

And now the Angels were gone, save for a few agents who had been in the Furthest Ring when the Church began its Reckoning, and Damara was listless.

Kurloz Makara found her in Cascade. He’d been playing pool there since he could see over the lip of the tables, but that was not why he was there today. Damara was splayed over a green felt table, legs spread and skirt pooling around her hips, smoking a cigar with one hand and holding the pistol that killed Scratch in the other. The Church would love to have the Felt back under its thumb. Normally, the leader of the Felt was one of the devout, but Scratch had changed it to a more complicated working relationship, rather than direct oversight. Kurloz had a duty to rapture, and it would begin with taking back the Felt and its surprising new leader. He hesitates a moment before stepping to loom over her, thinking that it might not be so bad if she _did_ shoot him.

But then he forgets Meulin and remembers his duty. Kurloz meets Damara’s gaze, and she is locked in it, unable to look away. Pupils widening, Kurloz dredges up his chucklevoodoo, granted to him by the gods that made the Reckoning possible and the things his father’s doctors had done to his mind, and he issues an order.

There are no terrors in her shadow. She’s never been to the Church to drink the body and blood of the messiah. Kurloz’s eyes are compelling, but his witchcraft does not work as it should. He commands her fingers to uncurl from her gun, so she will not kill him. Damara finds that she cannot point at him and pull the trigger, but she does not drop the gun. Oh well, she thinks. So it must be. She did not live through all of this to continue being a pawn.

Damara puts the barrel of the pistol in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

Kurloz is not the only Makara with the duty to rapture.

Gamzee is sent with a platoon of bishops to clear the remaining protestors. Those who have hung on are the resilient ones, but Gamzee kills them all the same. His chain-wrapped wooden bat is soaked through with red, but it has more life in it still. When they first descended, the gutter filth was unprepared. They’d expected guns and bombs, yet here came mystery and glory.

What made it possible for people to step from the shadows?

Was it technology? Magic?

The divine?

It did not matter to those dying. There was no way to fight back against any option.

Some did not even try to, and died hoping for ascendance. Others fought hard; one small girl in a long green coat had even scoured Gamzee across the face with a knife, but he could not be stopped. One woman who was once a leader but whose spirit was already broken did not even fight her fate. She knew what was coming from the moment robed men materialized from the ether. Those who ran were chased, and it did not matter if they got away. The Furthest Ring was larger than the Burbs, but there was only so far they could run until they hit the wall. There was more than one way to smoke out and cleanse a city.

The Peixes manor was the first building to catch aflame, but it certainly wasn’t the last.

 

* * *

 

You are only walking for a few minutes before you smell smoke on the wind.

Dave picks up the pace, and everyone else moves faster to keep up. You’re worried about Eridan, but he’s managing decently with you shouldering half his weight. Your left arm twinges where your mother’s bullet hardly touched you, and ears haven’t stopped ringing since the shot went off, but you’re perfectly healthy compared to Eridan, who was recently beaten and will probably never heal quite right.

As you head into the Belt, you glance back to see an orange reflection against the cool metal of the distant plateau. You cannot see the flames themselves, but you need to hurry through the Belt before they catch up with you. After that, it’s a five-mile jaunt through the housing districts until you reach the derelict outskirts that few people live in. It’s prime Midnight Crew territory, but you haven’t heard a peep from them since Kankri’s death.

You’re not too worried about walking through the Belt, and you’re right; though you were once stopped here at a random security checkpoint for bringing food down from the Burbs, the Belt is now deserted, the factories silent and windows smashed from looting. The streetlights are off, not even flickering, but the night is not as dark as it could be—despite some cloud cover, the moon is out, and the growing fire behind you provides some of glow.

Your stomach is uneasy with the weight of what you’re leaving behind. You feel immense guilt, like you’re sentencing everyone else to death just because you can leave them behind. You don’t know how many people are left, but Tavros was waiting in his apartment when you left, and Meenah was probably running around trying to avoid the Church, and countless faces you recognized from Kankri’s meetings but never really knew are probably still fighting back with everything they have.

Who are you kidding? Despite the small numbers of Pisces soldiers, they had big guns that would cut right through the thousands of people who remained. Perhaps the mob eventually won the confrontation, but it wouldn’t be without heavy losses. The only people left now would be those who hid in their apartments, just waiting to die.

In another timeline, that could’ve been you.

You think about the bet. If you hadn’t agreed to a jaunt in the Furthest Ring to get Eridan away from the Burbs for a little while, you wonder what the hell you’d be doing now. For a long time, you’d been oblivious to the movement Kankri was creating with his words and his planning and his passion. Your involvement changed very little, it seems, until Kankri was dead and the world started to change. You wonder what you and Eridan would be doing now if you’d never ventured down. Eridan probably would’ve been caught up in the Reckoning when Angel headquarters vanished, but you? In the Burbs, you were listless. You pitied those below you and wanted to make change, but were condescending and naïve to the realities of Canaveral. You like to think you learned and grew as a person, but did you? Was every choice you made a futile effort to keep the world from burning?

This is not the world, you have to remind yourself. This is a small city-state that’s hardly a blip on the map of the world. You remember Aradia showing you and Eridan maps and pictures of the old world. It’s hard to imagine there was ever a place so beautiful, with swaths of land stretching into the sky and glistening with green growth and brilliant colors. There were so many animals and plants and new environments that you can still feel an echo of the awe you once did, before Aradia told you that Canaveral was the wasteland, and the rest of the world remained intact.

If you hadn’t convinced Eridan to leave the Burbs, you would have never seen outside; all you would’ve had are the history lessons in school that taught you that the world was gone. You feel a tremor of fear—maybe your instructors were right and the place you’re heading to is just as ugly as Canaveral—but then who would Jade be? A prankster from another city-state?

You don’t know what will be waiting for you across the ocean. Hell, you don’t know if you’ll make it through the Furthest Ring. Anything could come and stop you: Church clowns performing their rapture, gang members taking advantage of the chaos, stray Angels that had been sent to monitor and missed the Reckoning. Eridan seems on-edge, squinting into every dark corner with a tight grip on you and his handgun, but the monsters you’re all expecting to seep out of the shadows never find you.

Is it paranoia if you have reason to be afraid? Growing up here should’ve given you a mind and heart of steel, making you immune to horror and anxiety, but all the things you’ve witnessed has left you with the knowledge that everything can always be worse, and horrible things never ceased to shake you to your core.

But as you hike through the silent streets and the moon travels across its usual trail, the fire gets farther behind you. You can still see the glow in the sky, but the heat is no longer radiating at your back. It has been hours since you last heard a gunshot. No lights are on in the many windows you pass; you know people are still hiding somewhere in the dark, surviving in the only way they know how.

You’re so incredibly lucky that you lived in the apartment below the best people you’ve ever met. Otherwise, you would’ve had no chance.

You take a deep breath in, then out. The fence that runs through sand dunes is barely visible in the distance. You cannot shroud yourself in guilt and negativity until you drown, like you did in your old dreams before you learned you didn’t have a father. You will be a survivor of Canaveral, and you’re determined to do it through strength and optimism.

You spent nearly eighteen years here and didn’t let it break you. You will not let it now that it’s about to disappear.

 

* * *

 

The chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that blocks off the beach is tall. Normally the Angels would be watching the security cameras atop each pole to alert the police if anyone hopped it, but even with the cameras back online, no one is there to see you attempt to get onto the beach. Karkat is the first to grasp the fence like he’s going to climb it, but Dave places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him while he rummages through his own pocket. Dave comes up with a multitool with a laser torch—the Strider-Lalondes have been planning this prison break for a long time, so they have thought of every obstacle. Dave cuts a hole in the links that everyone can fit through, and you’re grateful, since you doubt you could make the climb in this state unless you were ready to rebreak your legs on the climb down.

It has been years since you felt sand under your feet. You have the urge to take your boots off and feel the grains move between your toes; by the look Fef shoots you, she wants the same, and she doesn’t have your restraint. Using your shoulder for balance, she takes off her flats and holds them, letting her feet sink into the cool sand and wiggling her toes.

“Come on,” Porrim urges as the rest of the group moves farther down the beach. Leaning more on Fef, you follow.

Rose and Dave lead you down the straight beach until you reach a dilapidated boardwalk. Dave goes out to test it, a few pieces of rotting wood falling away in the process. He manages to get a good thirty or forty feet away from the shore. That wouldn’t be nearly far enough out for the size of the boats your mother used to command, but this vessel must be smaller.

By now, your eyes have adjusted to the dark, so you can see the thin V of water that appears, streaking toward you. The moon is just over half-full and waning, so there’s barely a sliver of silver on the crests of the small wake the object leaves behind it. The sharp nose of something large pokes out from the small waves, and by the time it reaches you, the deck of a boat has revealed itself.

It _is_ tiny compared to any boat in the fleet your mother controlled. It’s maybe fifty feet from stern to bow, with three small windows in the side indicating a shallow cabin. There’s no awning to cover you from the sun, but you figure you’ll be able to rig something; adding a cover to a hidden underwater vessel would just increase the area they had to disguise. It seems built for speed rather than power, and despite its small stature, it hardly rocks when Dave steps into it and reaches a hand back for Rose, who had joined her brother on the dock when the boat first appeared.

Kanaya follows after, and the rest of them get in until it’s just you and Fef left on the beach. Your grip on the gun is tight, and this feels too easy. You can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you go, but anyone who _could_ be watching would’ve tried to stop you already. Pursing your lips, you turn around to look behind you one more time. No strange discrepancies stand out in the darkness where a silenced Angel would be, nor do you see any churchfolk lurking. This close to the beach, it’s just you and the fence and the shells of old, broken buildings.

Fef gives your waist a slight tug, and you turn back. Over the ocean, there are wispy clouds in the sky, but you can see some stars, and the moon is almost directly above the Burbs. Rose is typing away to Jade and calling out directions to the others to set up the boat properly. As you approach, they replace the silent backup engine with the main one—the original couldn’t handle the added weight of its new passengers—and make sure the GPS is up and running. “Hurry up, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Karkat urges.

Fef gets into the boat without a problem. She reaches back across to help you in; you brace yourself with a hand on each of her shoulders as you carefully raise each leg and get onto the boat. It begins to back up slowly and smoothly as soon as both of your feet are in, and you take a few shaky steps to a seat at the stern and take a break, tilting your head back as the boat turns around and picks up speed.

You remember being out on one of your mother’s patrols, hanging off the railing on the high deck with your face bared to the breeze. The wind and salt stung your eyes then and it’s worse now—this smaller craft travels much faster than the large warships your mother had under her heel. Your computer glasses shield your eyes from some spray. You watch the Canaveral skyline, so different in the night and during a massacre. Before, you always were out during the day, and the tall skyscrapers of the Burbs shot up into the clouds off the plateau, swaths of silver metal cutting apart the light-blue sky. From here, the plateau merely looks like a flat gray and orange wall, no reaching giants climbing upward from the top. Below in the Furthest Ring, you can see faint outlines of apartment complexes and warehouses on the beach, but smoke obscures much of the district the closer it gets to the plateau. The sky above it glows orange, and you can feel it pulsing with heat even though there’s no way it could be reaching you, as far away as you already are. It’s a sight that will never leave you: the blank Burbs and the burning Furthest Ring below, scorching and shot to shit as the last of Canaveral made its stand.

Though you feel like leaving people behind to die will bother a lot of people on this boat for the rest of their lives, your screaming streak of self-preservation knows this was the right call. You’ve always had little care for strangers and despite how you’ve come to realize what a twisted little shit of a kid you were, you know that your priorities will always lie with the people you hold close, not anyone else. You don’t care if that makes you look like a soulless cretin or unsympathetic bitch or a charlatan—when you look out and see how your old world is being engulfed by flame and emptiness, you think about how goddamn lucky you are.

As you watch Canaveral inch farther away, Fef silent beside you and her shoulder brushing against your arm, you blink and the great metal plateau is gone.


	34. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If magic is all we've ever known  
> Then it's easy to miss what really goes on  
> But I've seen miracles in every way  
> And I see miracles everyday  
> Oceans spanning beyond my sight  
> And a million stars way above ‘em at night  
> We don't have to be high to look in the sky  
> And know that's a miracle opened wide  
> Look at the mountains, trees, the seven seas  
> And everything chilling underwater, please  
> Hot lava, snow, rain and fog  
> Long neck giraffes, and pet cats and dogs  
> And I've seen eighty-five thousand people  
> All in one room, together as equals  
> Pure magic is the birth of my kids  
> I've seen shit that'll shock your eyelids  
> The sun and the moon, and even Mars  
> The Milky Way and fucking shooting stars  
> UFOs, a river flows  
> Plant a little seed and nature grows  
> Niagara falls and the pyramids  
> Everything you believed in as kids  
> Fucking rainbows after it rains  
> There's enough miracles here to blow your brains.”  
> \--Hymn 267 of the ICP Prophets, Entitled “Miracles” (circa 2009)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you're in the right spot! I posted Chapters 29, 30, and the epilogue all at once, and this is the epilogue!

“Sky still clear?”

Jade pulls back from her telescope, whirling around in the desk chair that she’d dragged out to her small bedroom balcony. She doesn’t look back at John, instead opting to keep her gaze on the stars, now much farther away. They spin in circles like they do in time lapse photos, blurring at the edges the more she squints until her chair comes to a slow stop. She slumps back, lanky limbs spilling out from the sides of her chair as she blows a lock of hair from her face. “Yeah.”

“I thought you’d be happier that the Earth wasn’t getting blown to shit by meteors.”

Jade can hear the smile in her brother’s voice, but it does nothing to reassure her. “You know Rose and I can’t both be right. Either Sburb never ran, or it did but the Reckoning never triggered. I don’t think she and Dave hallucinated giant buildings disappearing out of nowhere, John.”

“But a bunch of meteors showing up was _definitely_ in the GameFAQs.”

Groaning, Jade presses the heels of her hands into her forehead. “I know! Like one meteor a couple of centuries ago wasn’t enough!”

It's all fucked up. Jade prides herself on being someone who could figure out anything with enough time on her hands, yet the mystery remains. What began when she was a genius eleven-year-old with a lucky internet connection ended in this: too few people saved. When she reached out across the Pacific as a child to find someone in a silenced regime reaching back, she promised she’d try to help and understand in whatever ways she could. It no longer mattered that her grandfather had lied to her about his link to an abandoned world. She had found it and she would do _more_.

Jade still hasn’t decided whether or not she was too late.

Friends died, juggalos ran the apocalyptic game, and as of three weeks ago, Canaveral was dark. Skaia Foundation satellites had seen where buildings blinked out of existence. She had a team assigned to watch the patterns of people in each city, and while those in control of Houston began to panic, Pasadena pretended nothing was amiss. It was only a matter of time before someone cracked and did something drastic to keep New America in its place, but Jade liked the idea that their threats against outsiders were one big bluff. It would be a sad one that a lot of people suffered for, but if it would allow access to the North American continent, Jade thinks it would be worth it.

She sees the light in the water before she hears the engines. The sun is newly set, the last dredges of it sending streaks of color across the sky, not a cloud in sight. Perfect meteor-watching conditions were something Jade has been blessed with recently, even if none had appeared. Standing, she walks two steps to the edge of the balcony and leans against the railing, squinting as if that would help her see their approach. She thinks it is the right boat, but she thought that several times this week and had been more disappointed each time.

But this time she is certain. John gets up off her bed and comes through the open door to stand behind her, watching the boat that is still so far away that it doesn’t seem to be getting much closer. It’s a small, sleek vessel, with a large tarp cover on the back. Jade can’t make out any people yet. “Wanna go meet them?” John asks.

“Do you think it’ll suck worse,” she says as if he hadn’t spoken, “if they get here and _then_ we all die?”

John snorts. “Wow. You lied to me about sleeping last night, didn’t you? You’re only this cranky when you’re exhausted.”

“I’m not _cranky_ ,” Jade says, sounding cranky. She tells herself to lighten up; the end of days is apparently something that won’t affect them. She asks herself a lot of stupid, neurotic questions in the next few seconds, and she doesn’t find answers to any of them. _It doesn’t matter_ , she tries to tell herself, but it fails to hit home.

The boat gets closer. Jade’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She knows it’s someone down at the docks who called the boat by radio; they wouldn’t disturb her at this hour if it wasn’t whom they’d been anticipating for the last week.

Jade didn’t know what she’d tell them about Sburb. Maybe she didn’t need to say anything at all—they would probably be haunted by the _whys_ of the situation rather than the _hows_.

 _It was a game_ , she imagines herself saying to a boatload of broken people. _It was a stupid game that should’ve ended the world but didn’t, so we will probably never get the chance to play. I don’t know if the affected people went into the “medium” or whatever, but they’re gone._

John said they’d already been through enough without having all of this dumped on them. He's right.

But Jade is still fixated.

She feels like Terezi would’ve been able to shed some light on it if she hadn’t died, but it didn’t matter now. Dave and Rose would surely want to talk to Jade and John about what the hell this meant for the world and the galaxy and the universe, but Jade doesn't think they need to burden anyone else with this. Canaveral may have reached its end times when the game was somehow acquired, but the world did not end when Sburb ran. Remembering the GameFAQs page the four of them had pored over for years, she wonders if this means their timeline is doomed. But how could something be doomed if they’d never had a proper chance?

Jade can make out the tiny silhouettes of people behind the light on the water. She’s glad that their boat’s tracking system had remained functioning, because otherwise it would be nearly impossible to find her little island far off the coast of Queensland. They made it.

 _You will be safe here_ , she imagines herself saying to a boatload of broken people. _I will help you and together we will make sure nothing like Canaveral ever happens again._

For some reason, the hopeful statement is the harder one to stomach. Jade tells herself no, this is not her, she is an optimist at her core and if she is willing to turn her beliefs into action, her promises won’t be empty. With the sky free of the Reckoning, she lets herself be _excited_.

Turning quickly, she strides past John back inside, throwing a grin back over her shoulder at her brother’s bewildered expression. She puts on her socks, her shoes, and shoots a text to the annoyed dock manager whose calls she’s been ignoring. Jade and John go to meet the boat at the docks, and Jade decides to use her second choice of words. She wants them to be safe. She wants them to be happy.

And more than anything, she wants to stand by her earlier thought. The world has changed since the meteor struck centuries ago. It is a world that those in Canaveral hadn’t known existed until recently, but Jade hopes it will be patient with them; they certainly deserve kindness. Whether they want to work toward freeing the remaining city-states or retire to Tasmania or whatever the hell else they could come up with, they could decide for themselves. The choice of what they want to do with their lives will belong to them and no one else.

Jade has a feeling she knows what they will choose.

_end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me over the last four years. I know I had a lot of dumb hiatuses and breaks, but I'm happy to have finally finished this fic. I didn't know when I started that it would encompass so many words and years, but it was a privilege to write for you. If you're left with any lingering thoughts or questions, please pop over to my [tumblr](sonicsymphony.tumblr.com) and drop something in my askbox. It's been a delight to write for you all, and I wouldn't have finished Insurgency without your concern and encouragement, so thank you once again for reading.


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